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The Lost Art of Reading


By


Gerald Stanley Lee

Author of "The Shadow Christ" (A Study of the Hebrew Poets) and "About
an Old New England Church" "A Little History"



G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS

New York and London
The Knickerbocker Press

1903



COPYRIGHT, 1902

BY

GERALD STANLEY LEE

Published, November, 1902
Reprinted January 1903

The Knickerbocker Press, New York




TO

JENNETTE LEE




Contents


  BOOK I
    INTERFERENCES WITH THE READING HABIT
      CIVILISATION
           I--Dust
          II--Dust
         III--Dust to Dust
          IV--Ashes
           V--The Literary Rush
          VI--Parenthesis--To the Gentle Reader
         VII--More Parenthesis--But More to the Point
        VIII--More Literary Rush
          IX--The Bugbear of Being Well Informed--A Practical Suggestion
           X--The Dead Level of Intelligence
          XI--The Art of Reading as One Likes
      THE DISGRACE OF THE IMAGINATION
           I--On Wondering Why One Was Born
          II--The Top of the Bureau Principle
      THE UNPOPULARITY OF THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR
           I--The First Person a Necessary Evil
          II--The Art of Being Anonymous
         III--Egoism and Society
          IV--i + I = We
           V--The Autobiography of Beauty
      THE HABIT OF NOT LETTING ONE'S SELF GO
           I--The Country Boy in Literature
          II--The Subconscious Self
         III--The Organic Principle of Inspiration
      THE HABIT OF ANALYSIS
           I--If Shakespeare Came to Chicago
          II--Analysis Analysed
      LITERARY DRILL IN COLLEGE
           I--Seeds and Blossoms
          II--Private Road: Dangerous
         III--The Organs of Literature
          IV--Entrance Examinations in Joy
           V--Natural Selection in Theory
          VI--Natural Selection in Practice
         VII--The Emancipation of the Teacher
        VIII--The Test of Culture
          IX--Summary
           X--A Note
      LIBRARIES. WANTED: AN OLD-FASHIONED LIBRARIAN
           I--viz.
          II--cf.
         III--et al.
          IV--etc.
           V--O

  BOOK II
    POSSIBILITIES
           I--The Issue
          II--The First Selection
         III--Conveniences
          IV--The Charter of Possibility
           V--The Great Game
          VI--Outward Bound

  BOOK III
    DETAILS. THE CONFESSIONS OF AN UNSCIENTIFIC MIND
      I--UNSCIENTIFIC
           I--On Being Intelligent in a Library
          II--How It Feels
         III--How a Specialist Can Be an Educated Man
          IV--On Reading Books Through their Backs
           V--On Keeping Each Other in Countenance
          VI--The Romance of Science
         VII--Monads
        VIII--Multiplication Tables
      II--READING FOR PRINCIPLES
           I--On Changing One's Conscience
          II--On the Intolerance of Experienced People
         III--On Having One's Experience Done Out
          IV--On Reading a Newspaper in Ten Minutes
           V--General Information
          VI--But----
      III--READING DOWN THROUGH
           I--Inside
          II--On Being Lonely with a Book
         III--Keeping Other Minds Off
          IV--Reading Backwards
      IV--READING FOR FACTS
           I--Calling the Meeting to Order
          II--Symbolic Facts
         III--Duplicates: A Principle of Economy
      V--READING FOR RESULTS
           I--The Blank Paper Frame of Mind
          II--The Usefully Unfinished
         III--Athletics
      VI--READING FOR FEELINGS
           I--The Passion of Truth
          II--The Topical Point of View
      VII--READING THE WORLD TOGETHER
           I--Focusing
          II--The Human Unit
         III--The Higher Cannibalism
          IV--Spiritual Thrift
           V--The City, the Church, and the College
          VI--The Outsiders
         VII--Reading the World Together

  BOOK IV
    WHAT TO DO NEXT
           I--See Next Chapter
          II--Diagnosis
         III--Eclipse
          IV--Apocalypse
           V--Every Man His Own Genius
          VI--An Inclined Plane
         VII--Allons




Book I

Interferences with the Reading Habit




The First Interference: Civilisation


I

Dust

"I see the ships," said The Eavesdropper, as he stole round the world to
me, "on a dozen sides of the world. I hear them fighting with the sea."

"And what do you see on the ships?" I said.

"Figures of men and women--thousands of figures of men and women."

"And what are they doing?"

"They are walking fiercely," he said,--"some of them,--walking fiercely
up and down the decks before the sea."

"Why?" said I.

"Because they cannot stand still and look at it. Others are reading in
chairs because they cannot sit still and look at it."

"And there are some," said The Eavesdropper, "with roofs of boards above
their heads (to protect them from Wonder)--down in the hold--playing
cards."

There was silence.

       *       *       *       *       *

"What are you seeing now?" I said.

"Trains," he said--"a globe full of trains. They are on a dozen sides of it.
They are clinging to the crusts of it--mountains--rivers--prairies--some
in the light and some in the dark--creeping through space."

"And what do you see in the trains?"

"Miles of faces."

"And the faces?"

"They are pushing on the trains."

       *       *       *       *       *

"What are you seeing now?" I said.

"Cities," he said--"streets of cities--miles of streets of cities."

"And what do you see in the streets of cities?"

"Men, women, and smoke."

"And what are the men and women doing?"

"Hurrying," said he.

"Where?" said I.

"God knows."


II

Dust

The population of the civilised world to-day may be divided into two
classes,--millionaires and those who would like to be millionaires. The
rest are artists, poets, tramps, and babies--and do not count. Poets and
artists do not count until after they are dead. Tramps are put in
prison. Babies are expected to get over it. A few more summers, a few
more winters--with short skirts or with down on their chins--they shall
be seen burrowing with the rest of us.

One almost wonders sometimes, why it is that the sun keeps on year after
year and day after day turning the globe around and around, heating it
and lighting it and keeping things growing on it, when after all, when
all is said and done (crowded with wonder and with things to live with,
as it is), it is a comparatively empty globe. No one seems to be using
it very much, or paying very much attention to it, or getting very much
out of it. There are never more than a very few men on it at a time, who
can be said to be really living on it. They are engaged in getting a
living and in hoping that they are going to live sometime. They are also
going to read sometime.

When one thinks of the wasted sunrises and sunsets--the great free show
of heaven--the door open every night--of the little groups of people
straggling into it--of the swarms of people hurrying back and forth
before it, jostling their getting-a-living lives up and down before it,
not knowing it is there,--one wonders why it is there. Why does it not
fall upon us, or its lights go suddenly out upon us? We stand in the
days and the nights like stalls--suns flying over our heads, stars
singing through space beneath our feet. But we do not see. Every man's
head in a pocket,--boring for his living in a pocket--or being bored for
his living in a pocket,--why should he see? True we are not without a
philosophy for this--to look over the edge of our stalls with. "Getting
a living is living," we say. We whisper it to ourselves--in our pockets.
Then we try to get it. When we get it, we try to believe it--and when we
get it we do not believe anything. Let every man under the walled-in
heaven, the iron heaven, speak for his own soul. No one else shall speak
for him. We only know what we know--each of us in our own pockets. The
great books tell us it has not always been an iron heaven or a walled-in
heaven. But into the faces of the flocks of the children that come to
us, year after year, we look, wondering. They shall not do anything but
burrowing--most of them. Our very ideals are burrowings. So are our
books. Religion burrows. It barely so much as looks at heaven. Why
should a civilised man--a man who has a pocket in civilisation--a man
who can burrow--look at heaven? It is the glimmering boundary line where
burrowing leaves off. Time enough. In the meantime the shovel. Let the
stars wheel. Do men look at stars with shovels?

       *       *       *       *       *

The faults of our prevailing habits of reading are the faults of our
lives. Any criticism of our habit of reading books to-day, which
actually or even apparently confines itself to the point, is
unsatisfactory. A criticism of the reading habit of a nation is a
criticism of its civilisation. To sketch a scheme of defence for the
modern human brain, from the kindergarten stage to Commencement day, is
merely a way of bringing the subject of education up, and dropping it
where it begins.

Even if the youth of the period, as a live, human, reading being (on the
principles to be laid down in the following pages), is so fortunate as to
succeed in escaping the dangers and temptations of the home--even if he
contrives to run the gauntlet of the grammar school and the academy--even
if, in the last, longest, and hardest pull of all, he succeeds in
keeping a spontaneous habit with books in spite of a college course, the
story is not over. Civilisation waits for him--all-enfolding,
all-instructing civilisation, and he stands face to face--book in
hand--with his last chance.


III

Dust to Dust

Whatever else may be said of our present civilisation, one must needs go
very far in it to see Abraham at his tent's door, waiting for angels.
And yet, from the point of view of reading and from the point of view of
the books that the world has always called worth reading, if ever there
was a type of a gentleman and scholar in history, and a Christian, and a
man of possibilities, founder and ruler of civilisations, it is this
same man Abraham at his tent's door waiting for angels. Have we any like
him now? Peradventure there shall be twenty? Peradventure there shall be
ten? Where is the man who feels that he is free to-day to sit upon his
steps and have a quiet think, unless there floats across the spirit of
his dream the sweet and reassuring sound of some one making a tremendous
din around the next corner--a band, or a new literary journal, or a
historical novel, or a special correspondent, or a new club or church or
something? Until he feels that the world is being conducted for him,
that things are tolerably not at rest, where shall one find in
civilisation, in this present moment, a man who is ready to stop and
look about him--to take a spell at last at being a reasonable,
contemplative, or even marriageable being?

The essential unmarriageableness of the modern man and the
unreadableness of his books are two facts that work very well together.

When Emerson asked Bronson Alcott "What have you done in the world, what
have you written?" the answer of Alcott, "If Pythagoras came to Concord
whom would he ask to see?" was a diagnosis of the whole nineteenth
century. It was a very short sentence, but it was a sentence to found a
college with, to build libraries out of, to make a whole modern world
read, to fill the weary and heedless heart of it--for a thousand years.

We have plenty of provision made for books in civilisation, but if
civilisation should ever have another man in the course of time who knows
how to read a book, it would not know what to do with him. No provision is
made for such a man. We have nothing but libraries--monstrous libraries
to lose him in. The books take up nearly all the room in civilisation,
and civilisation takes up the rest. The man is not allowed to peep in
civilisation. He is too busy in being ordered around by it to know that
he would like to. It does not occur to him that he ought to be allowed
time in it to know who he is, before he dies. The typical civilised man
is an exhausted, spiritually hysterical man because he has no idea of
what it means, or can be made to mean to a man, to face calmly with his
whole life a great book, a few minutes every day, to rest back on his
ideals in it, to keep office hours with his own soul.

The practical value of a book is the inherent energy and quietness of
the ideals in it--the immemorial way ideals have--have always had--of
working themselves out in a man, of doing the work of the man and of
doing their own work at the same time.

Inasmuch as ideals are what all real books are written with and read
with, and inasmuch as ideals are the only known way a human being has of
resting, in this present world, it would be hard to think of any book
that would be more to the point in this modern civilisation than a book
that shall tell men how to read to live,--how to touch their ideals
swiftly every day. Any book that should do this for us would touch life
at more points and flow out on men's minds in more directions than any
other that could be conceived. It would contribute as the June day, or
as the night for sleep, to all men's lives, to all of the problems of
all of the world at once. It would be a night latch--to the ideal.

Whatever the remedy may be said to be, one thing is certainly true with
regard to our reading habits in modern times. Men who are habitually
shamefaced or absent-minded before the ideal--that is, before the actual
nature of things--cannot expect to be real readers of books. They can
only be what most men are nowadays, merely busy and effeminate,
running-and-reading sort of men--rushing about propping up the universe.
Men who cannot trust the ideal--the nature of things,--and who think
they can do better, are naturally kept very busy, and as they take no
time to rest back on their ideals they are naturally very tired. The
result stares at us on every hand. Whether in religion, art, education,
or public affairs, we do not stop to find our ideals for the problems
that confront us. We do not even look at them. Our modern problems are
all Jerichos to us--most of them paper ones. We arrange symposiums and
processions around them and shout at them and march up and down before
them. Modern prophecy is the blare of the trumpet. Modern thought is a
crowd hurrying to and fro. Civilisation is the dust we scuffle in each
other's eyes.

When the peace and strength of spirit with which the walls of temples
are builded no longer dwell in them, the stones crumble. Temples are
built of eon-gathered and eon-rested stones. Infinite nights and days
are wrought in them, and leisure and splendour wait upon them, and
visits of suns and stars, and when leisure and splendour are no more in
human beings' lives, and visits of suns and stars are as though they
were not, in our civilisation, the walls of it shall crumble upon us. If
fulness and leisure and power of living are no more with us, nothing
shall save us. Walls of encyclopaedias--not even walls of Bibles shall
save us, nor miles of Carnegie-library. Empty and hasty and cowardly
living does not get itself protected from the laws of nature by tons of
paper and ink. The only way out for civilisation is through the
practical men in it--men who grapple daily with ideals, who keep office
hours with their souls, who keep hold of life with books, who take
enough time out of hurrahing civilisation along--to live.

Civilisation has been long in building and its splendour still hangs
over us, but Parthenons do not stand when Parthenons are no longer being
lived in Greek men's souls. Only those who have Coliseums in them can
keep Coliseums around them. The Ideal has its own way. It has it with
the very stones. It was an Ideal, a vanished Ideal, that made a
moonlight scene for tourists out of the Coliseum--out of the Dead Soul
of Rome.


IV

Ashes

There seem to be but two fundamental characteristic sensibilities left
alive in the typical, callously-civilised man. One of these
sensibilities is the sense of motion and the other is the sense of mass.
If he cannot be appealed to through one of these senses, it is of little
use to appeal to him at all. In proportion as he is civilised, the
civilised man can be depended on for two things. He can always be
touched by a hurry of any kind, and he never fails to be moved by a
crowd. If he can have hurry and crowd together, he is capable of almost
anything. These two sensibilities, the sense of motion and the sense of
mass, are all that is left of the original, lusty, tasting and seeing
and feeling human being who took possession of the earth. And even in
the case of comparatively rudimentary and somewhat stupid senses like
these, the sense of motion, with the average civilised man, is so blunt
that he needs to be rushed along at seventy miles an hour to have the
feeling that he is moving, and his sense of mass is so degenerate that
he needs to live with hundreds of thousands of people next door to know
that he is not alone. He is seen in his most natural state,--this
civilised being,--with most of his civilisation around him, in the seat
of an elevated railway train, with a crowded newspaper before his eyes,
and another crowded newspaper in his lap, and crowds of people reading
crowded newspapers standing round him in the aisles; but he can never be
said to be seen at his best, in a spectacle like this, until the
spectacle moves, until it is felt rushing over the sky of the street,
puffing through space; in which delectable pell-mell and carnival of
hurry--hiss in front of it, shriek under it, and dust behind it--he
finds, to all appearances at least, the meaning of this present world
and the hope of the next. Hurry and crowd have kissed each other and his
soul rests. "If Abraham sitting in his tent door waiting for angels had
been visited by a spectacle like this and invited to live in it all his
days, would he not have climbed into it cheerfully enough?" asks the
modern man. Living in a tent would have been out of the question, and
waiting for angels--waiting for anything, in fact--forever impossible.

Whatever else may be said of Abraham, his waiting for angels was the
making of him, and the making of all that is good in what has followed
since. The man who hangs on a strap--up in the morning and down at
night, hurrying between the crowd he sleeps with and the crowd he works
with, to the crowd that hurries no more,--even this man, such as he is,
with all his civilisation roaring about him, would have been impossible
if Abraham in the stately and quiet days had not waited at his tent door
for angels to begin a civilisation with, or if he had been the kind of
Abraham that expected that angels would come hurrying and scurrying
after one in a spectacle like this. "What has a man," says Blank in his
_Angels of the Nineteenth Century_,--"What has a man who consents to be
a knee-bumping, elbow-jamming, foothold-struggling strap-hanger--an
abject commuter all his days (for no better reason than that he is not
well enough to keep still and that there is not enough of him to be
alone)--to do with angels--or to do with anything, except to get done
with it as fast as he can?" So say we all of us, hanging on straps to
say it, swaying and swinging to oblivion. "Is there no power," says
Blank, "in heaven above or earth beneath that will _help us to stop_?"

If a civilisation is founded on two senses--the sense of motion and the
sense of mass,--one need not go far to find the essential traits of its
literature and its daily reading habit. There are two things that such a
civilisation makes sure of in all its concerns--hurry and crowd. Hence
the spectacle before us--the literary rush and mobs of books.


V

The Literary Rush

The present writer, being occasionally addicted (like the reader of this
book) to a seemly desire to have the opinions of some one besides the
author represented, has fallen into the way of having interviews held
with himself from time to time, which are afterwards published at his
own request. These interviews appear in the public prints as being
between a Mysterious Person and The Presiding Genius of the State of
Massachusetts. The author can only earnestly hope that in thus
generously providing for an opposing point of view, in taking, as it
were, the words of the enemy upon his lips, he will lose the sympathy of
the reader. The Mysterious Person is in colloquy with The Presiding
Genius of the State of Massachusetts. As The P. G. S. of M. lives
relentlessly at his elbow--dogs every day of his life,--it is hoped that
the reader will make allowance for a certain impatient familiarity in
the tone of The Mysterious Person toward so considerable a personage as
The Presiding Genius of the State of Massachusetts--which we can only
profoundly regret.

The Mysterious Person: "There is no escaping from it. Reading-madness is
a thing we all are breathing in to-day whether we will or no, and it is
not only in the air, but it is worse than in the air. It is underneath
the foundations of the things in which we live and on which we stand. It
has infected the very character of the natural world, and the movement
of the planets, and the whirl of the globe beneath our feet. Without its
little paling of books about it, there is hardly a thing that is left in
this modern world a man can go to for its own sake. Except by stepping
off the globe, perhaps, now and then--practically arranging a world of
one's own, and breaking with one's kind,--the life that a man must live
to-day can only be described as a kind of eternal parting with himself.
There is getting to be no possible way for a man to preserve his five
spiritual senses--even his five physical ones--and be a member, in good
and regular standing, of civilisation at the same time.

"If civilisation and human nature are to continue to be allowed to exist
together there is but one way out, apparently--an extra planet for all
of us, one for a man to live on and the other for him to be civilised
on."

P. G. S. of M.: "But----"

"As long as we, who are the men and women of the world, are willing to
continue our present fashion of giving up living in order to get a
living, one planet will never be large enough for us. If we can only get
our living in one place and have it to live with in another, the
question is, To whom does this present planet belong--the people who
spend their days in living into it and enjoying it, or the people who
never take time to notice the planet, who do not seem to know that they
are living on a planet at all?"

P. G. S. of M.: "But----"

"I may not be very well informed on very many things, but I am very sure
of one of them," said The Mysterious Person, "and that is, that this
present planet--this one we are living on now--belongs by all that is
fair and just to those who are really living on it, and that it should
be saved and kept as a sacred and protected place--a place where men
shall be able to belong to the taste and colour and meaning of things
and to God and to themselves. If people want another planet--a planet to
belong to Society on,--let them go out and get it.

"Look at our literature--current literature. It is a mere headlong,
helpless literary rush from beginning to end. All that one can extract
from it is getting to be a kind of general sound of going. We began
gently enough. We began with the annual. We had Poor Richard's Almanac.
Then we had the quarterly. A monthly was reasonable enough in course of
time; so we had monthlies. Then the semi-monthly came to ease our
literary nerves; and now the weekly magazine stumbles, rapt and wistful,
on the heels of men of genius. It makes contracts for prophecy. Unborn
poems are sold in the open market. The latest thoughts that thinkers
have, the trend of the thoughts they are going to have--the public makes
demand for these. It gets them. Then it cries 'More! More!' Where is the
writer who does not think with the printing-press hot upon his track,
and the sound of the pulp-mill making paper for his poems, and the buzz
of editors, instead of the music of the spheres? Think of the
destruction to American forests, the bare and glaring hills that face us
day and night, all for a literature like this--thousands of square miles
of it, spread before our faces, morning after morning, week after week,
through all this broad and glorious land! Seventy million
souls--brothers of yours and mine--walking through prairies of pictures
Sunday after Sunday, flickered at by head-lines, deceived by adjectives,
each with his long day's work, column after column, sentence after
sentence, plodding--plodding--plodding down to ----. My geography may be
wrong; the general direction is right."

"But don't you believe in newspapers?"

"Why, yes, in the abstract; _news_papers. But we do not have any news
nowadays. It is not news to know a thing before it's happened, nor is it
news to know what might happen, or why it might happen, or why it might
not happen. To be told that it doesn't make any difference whether it
happens at all, would be news, perhaps, to many people--such news as
there is; but it is hardly worth while to pay three cents to be sure of
that. An intelligent man can be sure of it for nothing. He has been sure
of it every morning for years. It's the gist of most of the newspapers
he reads. From the point of view of what can be called truly vital
information, in any larger sense, the only news a daily paper has is the
date at the top of the page. If a man once makes sure of that, if he
feels from the bottom of his heart what really good news it is that one
more day is come in a world as beautiful as this,--the rest of it----"

P. G. S. of M.: "But----"

"The rest of it, if it's true, is hardly worth knowing; and if it's
worth knowing, it can be found better in books; and if it's not
true--'Every man his own liar' is my motto. He might as well have the
pleasure of it, and he knows how much to believe. The same lunging,
garrulous, blindly busy habit is the law of all we do. Take our literary
critical journals. If a critic can not tell what he sees at once, he
must tell what he fails to see at once. The point is not his seeing or
not seeing, nor anybody's seeing or not seeing. The point is the
imperative 'at once.' Literature is getting to be the filling of
orders--time-limited orders. Criticism is out of a car window. Book
reviews are telegraphed across the sea (Tennyson's memoirs). The ----
(Daily) ---- (a spectacle for Homer!) begins a magazine to 'review in
three weeks every book of permanent value that is published'--one of the
gravest and most significant blows at literature--one of the gravest and
most significant signs of the condition of letters to-day--that could be
conceived! Three weeks, man! As if a 'book of permanent value' had ever
been recognised, as yet, in three years, or reviewed in thirty years (in
any proper sense), or mastered in three hundred years--with all the
hurrying of this hurrying world! We have no book-reviewers. Why should
we? Criticism begins where a man's soul leaves off. It comes from
brilliantly-defective minds,--so far as one can see,--from men of
attractively imperfect sympathies. Nordau, working himself into a mighty
wrath because mystery is left out of his soul, gathering adjectives
about his loins, stalks this little fluttered modern world, puts his
huge, fumbling, hippopotamus hoof upon the _Blessed Damozel_, goes
crashing through the press. He is greeted with a shudder of delight.
Even Matthew Arnold, a man who had a way of seeing things almost,
sometimes, criticises Emerson for lack of unity, because the unity was
on so large a scale that Arnold's imagination could not see it; and now
the chirrup from afar, rising from the east and the west, 'Why doesn't
George Meredith?' etc. People want him to put guide-posts in his books,
apparently, or before his sentences: 'TO ----' or 'TEN MILES TO THE
NEAREST VERB'--the inevitable fate of any writer, man or woman, who
dares to ask, in this present day, that his reader shall stop to think.
If a man cannot read as he runs, he does not read a book at all. The
result is, he ought to run; that is natural enough; and the faster he
runs, in most books, the better."

At this point The Mysterious Person reached out his long arm from his
easy-chair to some papers that were lying near. I knew too well what it
meant. He began to read. (He is always breaking over into manuscript
when he talks.)

"We are forgetting to see. Looking is a lost art. With our poor,
wistful, straining eyes, we hurry along the days that slowly, out of the
rest of heaven, move their stillness across this little world. The more
we hurry, the more we read. Night and noon and morning the panorama
passes before our eyes. By tables, on cars, and in the street we see
them--readers, readers everywhere, drinking their blindness in. Life is
a blur of printed paper. We see no more the things themselves. We see
about them. We lose the power to see the things themselves. We see in
sentences. The linotype looks for us. We know the world in columns. The
sounds of the street are muffled to us. In papers up to our ears, we
whirl along our endless tracks. The faces that pass are phantoms. In our
little woodcut head-line dream we go ceaseless on, turning leaves,--days
and weeks and months of leaves,--wherever we go--years of leaves. Boys
who never have seen the sky above them, young men who have never seen it
in a face, old men who have never looked out at sea across a crowd, nor
guessed the horizons there--dead men, the flicker of life in their
hands, not yet beneath the roofs of graves--all turning leaves."

The Mysterious Person stopped. Nobody said anything. It is the better
way, generally, with The Mysterious Person. We were beginning to feel as
if he were through, when his eye fell on a copy of The ----, lying on
the floor. It was open at an unlucky page.

"Look at that!" said he. He handed the paper to The P. G. S. of M.,
pointing with his finger, rather excitedly. The P. G. S. of M. looked at
it--read it through. Then he put it down; The Mysterious Person went on.

"Do you not know what it means when you, a civilised, cultivated,
converted human being, can stand face to face with a list--a list like
that--a list headed 'BOOKS OF THE WEEK'--when, unblinking and shameless,
and without a cry of protest, you actually read it through, without
seeing, or seeming to see, for a single moment that right there--right
there in that list--the fact that there is such a list--your
civilisation is on trial for its life--that any society or nation or
century that is shallow enough to publish as many books as that has yet
to face the most awful, the most unprecedented, the most headlong-coming
crisis in the history of the human race?"

The Mysterious Person made a pause--the pause of settling things. [There
are people who seem to think that the only really adequate way to settle
a thing, in this world, is for them to ask a question about it.]

At all events The Mysterious Person having asked a question at this
point, everybody might as well have the benefit of it.

In the meantime, it is to be hoped that in the next chapter The
Presiding Genius of the State of Massachusetts, or somebody--will get a
word in.


VI

Parenthesis To the Gentle Reader

This was a footnote at first. It is placed at the top of the page in the
hope that it will point at itself more and let the worst out at once. I
want to say I--a little--in this book.

I do not propose to do it very often. Indeed I am not sure just now,
that I shall be able to do it at all, but I would like to have the
feeling as I go along that arrangements have been made for it, and that
it is all understood, and that if I am fairly good about it--ring a
little bell or something--and warn people, I am going to be
allowed--right here in my own book at least--to say I when I want to.

I is the way I feel on the inside about this subject. Anybody can see
it. And I want to be honest, in the first place, and in the second place
(like a good many other people) I never have had what could be called a
real good chance to say I in this world, and I feel that if I
had--somehow, it would cure me.

I have tried other ways. I have tried calling myself he. I have stated
my experiences in principles--called myself it, and in the first part of
this book I have already fallen into the way--page after page--of
borrowing other people, when all the time I knew perfectly well (and
everybody) that I preferred myself. At all events this calling one's
self names--now one and now another,--working one's way _incognito_, all
the way through one's own book, is not making me as modest as I had
hoped. There seems to be nothing for it--with some of us, but to work
through to modesty the other way--backward--I it out.

There is one other reason. This Mysterious Person I have arranged with
in these opening chapters, to say I for me, does not seem to me to be
doing it very well. I think any one--any fairly observing person--would
admit that I could do it better, and if it's going to be done at all,
why should a mere spiritual machine--a kind of moral phonograph like
this Mysterious Person--be put forward to take the ignominy of it? I
have set my "I" up before me and duly cross-examined it. I have said to
it, "Either you are good enough to say I in a book or you are not," and
my "I" has replied to me, "If I am not, I want everybody to know why and
if I am--am----." Well of course he is not, and we will all help him to
know why. We will do as we would be done by. If there is ever going to
be any possible comfort in this world for me, in not being what I ought
to be, it is the thought that I am not the only one that knows it. At
all events, this feeling that the worst is known, even if one takes, as
I am doing now, a planet for a confessional, gives one a luxurious
sense--a sense of combined safety and irresponsibility which would not
be exchanged for a world. Every book should have I-places in
it--breathing-holes--places where one's soul can come up to the surface
and look out through the ice and say things. I do not wish to seem
superior and I will admit that I am as respectable as anybody in most
places, but I do think that if half the time I am devoting, and am going
to devote, to appearing as modest as people expect in this world, could
be devoted to really doing something in it, my little modesty--such as
it is--would not be missed. At all events I am persuaded that
anything--almost anything--would be better than this eternal keeping up
appearances of all being a little less interested in ourselves than we
are, which is what Literature and Society are for, mostly. We all do it,
more or less. And yet if there were only a few scattered-along places,
public soul-open places to rest in, and be honest in--(in art-parlours
and teas and things)--wouldn't we see people rushing to them? I would
give the world sometimes to believe that it would pay to be as honest
with some people as with a piece of paper or with a book.

I dare say I am all wrong in striking out and flourishing about in a
chapter like this, and in threatening to have more like them, but there
is one comfort I lay to my soul in doing it. If there is one thing
rather than another a book is for (one's own book) it is, that it
furnishes the one good, fair, safe place for a man to talk about himself
in, because it is the only place that any one--absolutely any one,--at
any moment, can shut him up.

This is not saying that I am going to do it. My courage will go from me
(for saying I, I mean). Or I shall not be humble enough or something and
it all will pass away. I am going to do it now, a little, but I cannot
guarantee it. All of a sudden, no telling when or why, I shall feel that
Mysterious Person with all his worldly trappings hanging around me again
and before I know it, before you know it, Gentle Reader, I with all my I
(or i) shall be swallowed up. Next time I appear, you shall see me,
decorous, trim, and in the third person, my literary white tie on,
snooping along through these sentences one after the other, crossing my
I's out, wishing I had never been born.

       *       *       *       *       *

Postscript. I cannot help recording at this point, for the benefit of
reckless persons, how saying I in a book feels. It feels a good deal like
a very small boy in a very high swing--a kind of flashing-of-everything
through-nothing feeling, but it cannot be undone now, and so if you
please, Gentle Reader, and if everybody will hold their breath, I am
going to hold on tight and do it.


VII

More Parenthesis--But More to the Point

I have gotten into a way lately, while I am just living along, of going
out and taking a good square turn every now and then, in front of
myself. It is not altogether an agreeable experience, but there seems to
be a window in every man's nature on purpose for it--arranged and
located on purpose for it, and I find on the whole that going out around
one's window, once in so often, and standing awhile has advantages. The
general idea is to stand perfectly still for a little time, in a kind of
general, public, disinterested way, and then suddenly, when one is off
one's guard and not looking, so to speak, take a peek backwards into
one's self.

I am aware that it does not follow, because I have just come out and
have been looking into my window, that I have a right to hold up any
person or persons who may be going by in this book, and ask them to look
in too, but at the same time I cannot conceal--do not wish to conceal,
even if I could--that there have been times, standing in front of my
window and looking in, when what I have seen there has seemed to me to
assume a national significance.

There are millions of other windows like it. It is one of the daily
sorrows of my life that the people who own them do not seem to know
it--most of them--except perhaps in a vague, hurried pained way.
Sometimes I feel like calling out to them as I stand by my window--see
them go hurrying by on The Great Street: "Say there, Stranger! Halloa,
Stranger! Want to see yourself? Come right over here and look at me!"

Nobody believes it, of course. It's a good deal like standing and waving
one's arms in the Midway--being an egotist,--but I must say, I have
never got a man yet--got him in out of the rush, I mean, right up in
front of my window--got him once stooped down and really looking in
there, but he admitted there was something in it.

Thus does it come to pass--this gentle swelling. Let me be a warning to
you, Gentle Reader, when you once get to philosophising yourself over
(along the line of your faults) into the disputed territory of the First
Person Singular. I am not asking you to try to believe my little
philosophy of types. I am trying to, in my humble way, to be sure, but I
would rather, on the whole, let it go. It is not so much my philosophy I
rest my case on, as my sub-philosophy or religion--viz., I like it and
believe in it--saying I. (Thank Heaven that, bad as it is, I have struck
bottom at last!) The best I can do under the circumstances, I suppose,
is to beg (in a perfectly blank way) forgiveness--forgiveness of any and
every kind from everybody, if in this and the following chapters I fall
sometimes to talking of people--people at large--under the general head
of myself.

       *       *       *       *       *

I was born to read. I spent all my early years, as I remember them, with
books,--peering softly about in them. My whole being was hushed and
trustful and expectant at the sight of a printed page. I lived in the
presence of books, with all my thoughts lying open about me; a kind of
still, radiant mood of welcome seemed to lie upon them. When I looked at
a shelf of books I felt the whole world flocking to me.

I have been civilised now, I should say, twenty, or possibly
twenty-five, years. At least every one supposes I am civilised, and my
whole being has changed. I cannot so much as look upon a great many
books in a library or any other heaped-up place, without feeling bleak
and heartless. I never read if I can help it. My whole attitude toward
current literature is grouty and snappish, a kind of perpetual
interrupted "What are you ringing my door-bell now for?" attitude. I am
a disagreeable character. I spend at least one half my time, I should
judge, keeping things off, in defending my character. Then I spend the
other half in wondering if, after all, it was worth it. What I see in my
window has changed. When I used to go out around and look into it, in
the old days, to see what I was like, I was a sunny, open
valley--streams and roads and everything running down into it, and
opening out of it, and when I go out suddenly now, and turn around in
front of myself and look in--I am a mountain pass. I sift my friends--up
a trail. The few friends that come, come a little out of breath (God
bless them!), and a book cannot so much as get to me except on a mule's
back.

It is by no means an ideal arrangement--a mountain pass, but it is
better than always sitting in one's study in civilisation, where every
passer-by, pamphlet, boy in the street, thinks he might just as well
come up and ring one's door-bell awhile. All modern books are book
agents at heart, around getting subscriptions for themselves. If a man
wants to be sociable or literary nowadays, he can only do it by being a
more or less disagreeable character, and if he wishes to be a beautiful
character, he must go off and do it by himself.

This is a mere choice in suicides.

The question that presses upon me is: Whose fault is it that a poor
wistful, incomplete, human being, born into this huge dilemma of a
world, can only keep on having a soul in it, by keeping it (that is, his
soul) tossed back and forth--now in one place where souls are lost, and
now in another? Is it your fault, or mine, Gentle Reader, that we are
obliged to live in this undignified, obstreperous fashion in what is
called civilisation? I cannot believe it. Nearly all the best people one
knows can be seen sitting in civilisation on the edge of their chairs,
or hurrying along with their souls in satchels.

There is but one conclusion. Civilisation is not what it is advertised
to be. Every time I see a fresh missionary down at the steamer wharf, as
I do sometimes, starting away for other lands, loaded up with our
Institutions to the eyes, Church in one hand and Schoolhouse in the
other, trim, happy, and smiling over them, at everybody, I feel like
stepping up to him and saying, what seem to me, a few appropriate words.
I seldom do it, but the other day when I happened to be down at the
_Umbria_ dock about sailing-time, I came across one (a foreign
missionary, I mean) pleasant, thoughtless, and benevolent-looking,
standing there all by himself by the steamer-rail, and I thought I would
try speaking to him.

"Where are you going to be putting--those?" I said, pointing to a lot of
funny little churches and funny little schoolhouses he was holding in
both hands.

"From Greenland's icy mountains to India's coral strand," he said.

I looked at them a minute. "You don't think, do you?" I said--"You don't
really think you had better wait over a little--bring them back and let
us--finish them for you, do you? one or two--samples?" I said.

He looked at me with what seemed to me at first, a kind of blurred,
helpless look. I soon saw that he was pitying me and I promptly stepped
down to the dining-saloon and tried to appreciate two or three tons of
flowers.

I do not wish to say a word against missionaries. They are merely apt to
be somewhat heedless, morally-hurried persons, rushing about the world
turning people (as they think) right side up everywhere, without really
noticing them much, but I do think that a great deliberate corporate
body like The American Board of Commissioners of Foreign Missions ought
to be more optimistic about the Church--wait and work for it a little
more, expect a little more of it.

It seems to me that it ought to be far less pessimistic than it is,
also, about what we can do in the way of schools and social life in
civilisation and about civilisation's way of doing business. Is our
little knack of Christianity (I find myself wondering) quite worthy of
all this attention it is getting from The American Board of
Commissioners of Foreign Missions? Why should it approve of civilisation
with a rush? Does any one really suppose that it is really time to pat
it on the back--yet?--to spend a million dollars a year--patting it on
the back?

I merely throw out the question.


VIII

More Literary Rush

We had been talking along, in our Club, as usual, for some time, on the
general subject of the world--fixing the blame for things. We had come
to the point where it was nearly all fixed (most of it on other people)
when I thought I might as well put forward my little theory that nearly
everything that was the matter, could be traced to the people who
"belong to Society."

Then The P. G. S. of M. (who is always shoving a dictionary around in
front of him when he talks) spoke up and said:

"But who belongs to Society?"

"All persons who read what they are told to and who call where they
can't help it. What this world needs just now," I went on, looking The
P. G. S. of M. as much in the eye as I could, "is emancipation. It needs
a prophet--a man who can gather about him a few brave-hearted,
intelligently ignorant men, who shall go about with their beautiful feet
on the mountains, telling the good tidings of how many things there are
we do not need to know. The prejudice against being ignorant is largely
because people have not learned how to do it. The wrong people have
taken hold of it."

I cannot remember the exact words of what was said after this, but I
said that it seemed to me that most people were afraid not to know
everything. Not knowing too much is a natural gift, and unless a man can
make his ignorance contagious--inspire people with the books he dares
not read--of course the only thing he can do is to give up and read
everything, and belong to Society. He certainly cannot belong to himself
unless he protects himself with well-selected, carefully guarded, daring
ignorance. Think of the books--the books that are dictated to us--the
books that will not let a man go,--and behind every book a hundred
intelligent men and women--one's friends, too--one's own kin----

P. G. S. of M.: "But the cultured man must----"

The cultured man is the man who can tell me what he does not know, with
such grace that I feel ashamed of knowing it.

Now there's M----, for example. Other people seem to read to talk, but I
never see him across a drawing-room without an impulse of barbarism, and
I always get him off into a corner as soon as I can, if only to rest
myself--to feel that I have a right not to read everything. He always
proves to me something that I can get along without. He is full of the
most choice and picturesque bits of ignorance. He is creatively
ignorant. He displaces a book every time I see him--which is a deal
better in these days than writing one. A man should be measured by his
book-displacement. He goes about with his thinking face, and a kind of
nimbus over him, of never needing to read at all. He has nothing
whatever to give but himself, but I had rather have one of his
_questions_ about a book I had read, than all the other opinions and
subtle distinctions in the room--or the book itself.

P. G. S. of M. "But the cultured man must----"

NOT. It is the very essence of a cultured man that when he hears the
word "must" it is on his own lips. It is the very essence of his culture
that he says it to himself. His culture is his belonging to himself, and
his belonging to himself is the first condition of his being worth
giving to other people. One longs for Elia. People know too much, and
there doesn't seem to be a man living who can charm them from the error
of their way. Knowledge takes the place of everything else, and all one
can do in this present day as he reads the reviews and goes to his club,
is to look forward with a tired heart to the prophecy of Scripture,
"Knowledge shall pass away."

Where do we see the old and sweet content of loving a thing for itself?
Now, there are the flowers. The only way to delight in a flower at your
feet in these days is to watch with it all alone, or keep still about
it. The moment you speak of it, it becomes botany. It's a rare man who
will not tell you all he knows about it. Love isn't worth anything
without a classic name. It's a wonder we have any flowers left. Half the
charm of a flower to me is that it looks demure and talks perfume and
keeps its name so gently to itself. The man who always enjoys views by
picking out the places he knows, is a symbol of all our reading habits
and of our national relation to books. One can glory in a great cliff
down in the depths of his heart, but if you mention it, it is geology,
and an argument. Even the birds sing zoologically, and as for the sky,
it has become a mere blue-and-gold science, and all the wonder seems to
be confined to one's not knowing the names of the planets. I was brought
up wistfully on

  Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
  How I wonder what you are.

But now it is become:

  Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
  Teacher's told me what you are.

Even babies won't wonder very soon. That is to say, they won't wonder
out loud. Nobody does. Another of my poems was:

  Where did you come from, baby dear?
  Out of the everywhere into here.

I thought of it the other day when I stepped into the library with the
list of books I had to have an opinion about before Mrs. W----'s
Thursday Afternoon, I felt like a literary infant.

  Where did you come from, baby fair?
  Out of the here into everywhere.

And the bookcases stared at me.

It is a serious question whether the average American youth is ever
given a chance to thirst for knowledge. He thirsts for ignorance
instead. From the very first he is hemmed in by knowledge. The
kindergarten with its suave relentlessness, its perfunctory
cheerfulness, closes in upon the life of every child with himself. The
dear old-fashioned breathing spell he used to have after getting
here--whither has it gone? The rough, strong, ruthless, unseemly,
grown-up world crowds to the very edge of every beginning life. It has
no patience with trailing clouds of glory. Flocks of infants every
year--new-comers to this planet--who can but watch them sadly, huddled
closer and closer to the little strip of wonder that is left near the
land from which they came? No lingering away from us. No infinite
holiday. Childhood walks a precipice crowded to the brink of birth. We
tabulate its moods. We register its learning inch by inch. We draw its
poor little premature soul out of its body breath by breath. Infants are
well informed now. The suckling has nerves. A few days more he will be
like all the rest of us. It will be:

Poem: "When I Was Weaned."

"My First Tooth: A Study."

The Presiding Genius of the State of Massachusetts, with his dazed, kind
look, looked up and said: "I fear, my dear fellow, there is no place for
you in the world."

Thanks. One of the delights of going fishing or hunting is, that one
learns how small "a place in the world" is--comes across so many
accidentally preserved characters--preserved by not having a place in
the world--persons that are interesting to be with--persons you can tell
things.

The real object--it seems to me--in meeting another human being is
complement--fitting into each other's ignorances. Sometimes it seems as
if it were only where there is something to be caught or shot, or where
there is plenty of room, that the highest and most sociable and useful
forms of ignorance were allowed to mature.

One can still find such fascinating prejudices, such frank enthusiasms
of ignorance, where there's good fishing; and then, in the stray
hamlets, there is the grave whimsicalness and the calm superior air of
austerity to cultured people.

Ah, let me live in the Maine woods or wander by the brooks of Virginia, and
rest my soul in the delights--in the pomposity--of ignorance--ignorance
in its pride and glory and courage and lovableness! I never come back
from a vacation without a dream of what I might have been, if I had only
dared to know a little less; and even now I sometimes feel I have
ignorance enough, if like Elia, for instance, I only knew how to use it,
but I cannot as much as get over being ashamed of it. I am nearly gone.
I have little left but the gift of being bored. That is something--but
hardly a day passes without my slurring over a guilty place in
conversation, without my hiding my ignorance under a bushel, where I can
go later and take a look at it by myself. Then I know all about it next
time and sink lower and lower. A man can do nothing alone. Of course,
ignorance must be natural and not acquired in order to have the true
ring and afford the most relief in the world; but every wide-awake
village that has thoughtful people enough--people who are educated up to
it--ought to organise an Ignoramus Club to defend the town from papers
and books----.

It was at about this point that The Presiding Genius of the State of
Massachusetts took up the subject, and after modulating a little and
then modulating a little more, he was soon listening to himself about a
book we had not read, and I sat in my chair and wrote out this.


IX

The Bugbear of Being Well Informed--A Practical Suggestion

    1. This Club shall be known as the Ignoramus Club of ----.

    4. Every member shall be pledged not to read the latest book
       until people have stopped expecting it.

    5. The Club shall have a Standing Committee that shall report at
       every meeting on New Things That People Do Not Need to Know.

    6. It shall have a Public Library Committee, appointed every
       year, to look over the books in regular order and report on
       Old Things That People Do Not Need to Know. (Committee
       instructed to keep the library as small as possible.)

    8. No member (vacations excepted) shall read any book that he
       would not read twice. In case he does, he shall be obliged to
       read it twice or pay a fine (three times the price of book,
       net).

    11. The Club shall meet weekly.

    12. Any person of suitable age shall be eligible for membership
        in the Club, who, after a written examination in his
        deficiencies, shall appear, in the opinion of the Examining
        Board, to have selected his ignorance thoughtfully,
        conscientiously, and for the protection of his mind.

    13. All persons thus approved shall be voted upon at the next
        regular meeting of the Club--the vote to be taken by ballot
        (any candidate who has not read _When Knighthood Was in
        Flower_, or _Audrey_, or _David Harum_--by acclamation).

Perhaps I have quoted from the by-laws sufficiently to give an idea of
the spirit and aim of the Club. I append the order of meeting:

    1. Called to order.

    2. Reports of Committees.

    3. General Confession (what members have read during the week).

    4. FINES.

    5. Review: Books I Have Escaped.

    6. Essay: Things Plato Did Not Need to Know.

    7. Omniscience. Helpful Hints. Remedies.

    8. The Description Evil; followed by an illustration.

    9. _Not_ Travelling on the Nile: By One Who Has Been There.

    10. Our Village Street: Stereopticon.

    11. What Not to Know about Birds.

    12. Myself through an Opera-Glass.

    13. Sonnet: Botany.

    14. Essay: Proper Treatment of Paupers, Insane, and Instructive
        People.

    15. The Fad for Facts.

    16. How to Organise a Club against Clubs.

    17. Paper: How to Humble Him Who Asks, "Have You Read----?"

    18. Essay, by youngest member: Infinity. An Appreciation.

    19. Review: The Heavens in a Nutshell.

    20. Review. Wild Animals I Do Not Want to Know.

    21. Exercise in Silence. (Ten Minutes. Entire Club.)

    22. Essay (Ten Minutes): _Encyclopaedia Britannica_, Summary.

    23. Exercise in Wondering about Something. (Selected. Ten
        Minutes. Entire Club.)

    24. Debate: Which Is More Deadly--the Pen or the Sword?

    25. Things Said To-Night That We Must Forget.

    26. ADJOURNMENT. (Each member required to walk home alone
        looking at the stars.)

I have sometimes thought I would like to go off to some great, wide,
bare, splendid place--nothing but Time and Room in it--and read awhile.
I would want it built in the same general style and with the same
general effect as the universe, but a universe in which everything lets
one alone, in which everything just goes quietly on in its great still
round, letting itself be looked at--no more said about it, nothing to be
done about it. No exclamations required. No one standing around
explaining things or showing how they appreciated them.

Then after I had looked about a little, seen that everything was safe
and according to specifications, I think the first thing I would do
would be to sit down and see if I could not read a great book--the way I
used to read a great book, before I belonged to civilisation, read it
until I felt my soul growing softly toward it, reaching up to the day
and to the night with it.

I have always kept on hoping that I would be allowed, in spite of being
somewhat mixed up with civilisation, to be a normal man sometime. It has
always seemed to me that the normal man--the highly organised man in all
ages, is the man who takes the universe primarily as a spectacle. This
is his main use for it. The object of his life is to get a good look at
it before he dies--to be the kind of man who can get a good look at it.
How any one can go through a whole life--sixty or seventy years of
it--with a splendour like this arching over him morning, noon, and
night, flying beneath his feet, blooming out at him on every side, and
not spend nearly all his time (after the bare necessaries of life) in
taking it in, listening and tasting and looking in it, is one of the
seven wonders of the world. I never look out of my factory window in
civilisation, see a sunset or shore of the universe,--am reminded again
that there is a universe--but I wonder at myself and wonder at It. I try
to put civilisation and the universe together. I cannot do it. It's as
if we were afraid to be caught looking at it--most of us--spending the
time to look at it, or as if we were ashamed before the universe
itself--running furiously to and fro in it, lest it should look at us.

It is the first trait of a great book, it seems to me, that it makes all
other books--little hurrying, petulant books--wait. A kind of
immeasurable elemental hunger comes to a man out of it. Somehow I feel I
have not had it out with a great book if I have not faced other great
things with it. I want to face storms with it, hours of weariness and
miles of walking with it. It seems to ask me to. It seems to bring with
it something which makes me want to stop my mere reading-and-doing kind
of life, my ink-and-paper imitation kind of life, and come out and be a
companion with the silent shining, with the eternal going on of things.
It seems to be written in every writing that is worth a man's while that
it can not--that it shall not--be read by itself. It is written that a
man shall work to read, that he must win some great delight to do his
reading with. Many and many a winter day I have tramped with four lines
down to the edge of the night, to overtake my soul--to read four lines
with. I have faced a wind for hours--been bitterly cold with it--before
the utmost joy of the book I had lost would come back to me. I find that
when I am being normal (vacations mostly) I scarcely know what it is to
give myself over to another mind for more than an hour or so at a time.
If a chapter has anything in it, I want to do something with it, go out
and believe it, live with it, exercise it awhile. I am not only bored
with a book when it does not interest me. I am bored with it when it
does. I want to interrupt it, take it outdoors, see what the hills and
clouds think, try it on, test it, see if it is good enough--see if it
can come down upon me as rain or sunlight or other real things and blow
upon me as the wind. It does not belong to me until it has found its way
through all the weathers within and the weathers without, until it
drifts with me through moods, events, sensations, and days and nights,
faces and sunsets, and the light of stars,--until it is a part of life
itself. I find there is no other or shorter or easier way for me to do
with a great book than to greet it as it seems to ask to be greeted, as
if it were a world that had come to me and sought me out--wanted me to
live in it. Hundreds and hundreds of times, when I am being civilised,
have I not tried to do otherwise? Have I not stopped my poor pale,
hurried, busy soul (like a kind of spectre flying past me) before a
great book and tried to get it to speak to it, and it would not? It
requires a world--a great book does--as a kind of ticket of admission,
and what have I to do, when I am being civilised, with a world--the one
that's running still and godlike over me? Do I not for days and weeks at
a time go about in it, guilty, shut-in, and foolish under it, slinking
about--its emptied miracles all around me, mean, joyless, anxious,
unable to look the littlest flower in the face--unable----. "Ah, God!"
my soul cries out within me. Are not all these things mine? Do they not
belong with me and I with them? And I go racing about, making things up
in their presence, plodding for shadows, cutting out paper dolls to live
with. All the time this earnest, splendid, wasted heaven shining over
me--doing nothing with it, expecting nothing of it--a little more warmth
out of it perhaps, a little more light not to see in----. Who am I that
the grasses should whisper to me, that the winds should blow upon me?
Now and then there are days that come, when I see a flower--when I
really see a flower--and my soul cries out to it.

Now and then there are days too, when I see a great book, a book that
has the universe wrought in it. I find my soul feeling it vaguely,
creeping toward it. I wonder if I dare to read it. I remember how I used
to read it. I all but pray to it. I sit in my factory window and try
sometimes. But it is all far away--at least as long as I stay in my
window. It's all about some one else--a kind of splendid wistful walking
in a dream. It does not really belong to me to live in a great book--a
book with the universe in it. Sometimes it almost seems to. But it
barely, faintly belongs to me. It is as if the sky came to me, and
stooped down over me, and then went softly away in my sleep.


X

The Dead Level of Intelligence

Your hostess introduces you to a man in a drawing-room. "Mr. C----
belongs to a Browning Club, too," she says.

What are you going to do about it? Are you going to talk about Browning?

Not if Browning is one of your alive places. You will reconnoitre
first--James Whitcomb Riley or Ella Wheeler Wilcox. There is no telling
where The Enemy will bring you up, if you do not. He may tell you
something about Browning you never knew--something you have always
wanted to know,--but you will be hurt that he knew it. He may be the
original Grammarian of "The Grammarian's Funeral" (whom Robert Browning
took--and knew perfectly well that he took at the one poetic moment of
his life), but his belonging to a Browning Club--The Enemy, that
is--does not mean anything to you or to any one else nowadays--either
about Browning or about himself.

There was a time once, when, if a man revealed in conversation, that he
was familiar with poetic structure in John Keats, it meant something
about the man--his temperament, his producing or delighting power. It
means now, that he has taken a course in poetics in college, or teaches
English in a high school, and is carrying deadly information about with
him wherever he goes. It does not mean that he has a spark of the Keats
spirit in him, or that he could have endured being in the same room with
Keats, or Keats could have endured being in the same room with him, for
fifteen minutes.

If there is one inconvenience rather than another in being born in the
latter half of the nineteenth century, it is the almost constant
compulsion one is under in it, of finding people out--making a
distinction between the people who know a beautiful thing and are worth
while, and the boors of culture--the people who know all about it. One
sees on every hand to-day persons occupying positions of importance who
have been taken through all the motions of education, from the bottom to
the top, but who always belong to the intellectual lower classes
whatever their positions may be, because they are not masters. They are
clumsy and futile with knowledge. Their culture has not been made over
into them--selves. They have acquired it largely under mob-influence
(the dead level of intelligence), and all that they can do with it, not
wanting it, is to be teachery with it--force it on other people who do
not want it.

Whether in the origin, processes, or results of their learning, these
people have all the attributes of a mob. Their influence and force in
civilisation is a mob influence, and it operates in the old and classic
fashion of mobs upon all who oppose it.

It constitutes at present the most important and securely intrenched
intimidating force that modern society presents against the actual
culture of the world, whether in the schools or out of them. Its voice
is in every street, and its shout of derision may be heard in almost
every walk of life against all who refuse to conform to it. There are
but very few who refuse. Millions of human beings, young and old, in
meek and willing rows are seen on every side, standing before It--THE
DEAD LEVEL,--anxious to do anything to be graded up to it, or to be
graded down to it--offering their heads to be taken off, their necks to
be stretched, or their waists--willing to live footless all their
days--anything--anything whatever, bless their hearts! to know that they
are on the Level, the Dead Level, the precise and exact Dead Level of
Intelligence.

The fact that this mob-power keeps its hold by using books instead of
bricks is merely a matter of form. It occupies most of the strategic
positions just now in the highways of learning, and it does all the
things that mobs do, and does them in the way that mobs do them. It has
broken into the gardens, into the arts, the resting-places of nations,
and with its factories to learn to love in, its treadmills to learn to
sing in, it girdles its belt of drudgery around the world and carries
bricks and mortar to the clouds. It shouts to every human being across
the spaces--the outdoors of life: "Who goes there? Come thou with us.
Dig thou with us. Root or die!"

Every vagrant joy-maker and world-builder the modern era boasts--genius,
lover, singer, artist, has had to have his struggle with the
hod-carriers of culture, and if a lover of books has not enough love in
him to refuse to be coerced into joining the huge Intimidator, the
aggregation of the Reading Labour Unions of the world, which rules the
world, there is little hope for him. All true books draw quietly away
from him. Their spirit is a spirit he cannot know.

It would be hard to find a more significant fact with regard to the
ruling culture of modern life than the almost total displacement of
temperament in it,--its blank, staring inexpressiveness. We have lived
our lives so long under the domination of the "Cultured-man-must" theory
of education--the industry of being well informed has gained such
headway with us, that out of all of the crowds of the civilised we
prefer to live with to-day, one must go very far to find a cultivated
man who has not violated himself in his knowledge, who has not given up
his last chance at distinction--his last chance to have his knowledge
fit him closely and express him and belong to him.

The time was, when knowledge was made to fit people like their clothes.
But now that we have come to the point where we pride ourselves on
educating people in rows and civilising them in the bulk, "If a man has
the privilege of being born by himself, of beginning his life by
himself, it is as much as he can expect," says the typical Board of
Education. The result is, so far as his being educated is concerned, the
average man looks back to his first birthday as his last chance of being
treated--as God made him,--a special creation by himself. "The Almighty
may deal with a man, when He makes him, as a special creation by
himself. He may manage to do it afterward. _We_ cannot," says The Board,
succinctly, drawing its salary; "It increases the tax rate."

The problem is dealt with simply enough. There is just so much cloth to
be had and just so many young and two-legged persons to be covered with
it--and that is the end of it. The growing child walks down the
years--turns every corner of life--with Vistas of Ready-Made Clothing
hanging before him, closing behind him. Unless he shall fit himself to
these clothes--he is given to understand--down the pitying, staring
world he shall go, naked, all his days, like a dream in the night.

It is a general principle that a nation's life can be said to be truly a
civilised life, in proportion as it is expressive, and in proportion as
all the persons in it, in the things they know and in the things they
do, are engaged in expressing what they are.

A generation may be said to stand forth in history, to be a great and
memorable generation in art and letters, in material and spiritual
creation, in proportion as the knowledge of that generation was fitted
to the people who wore it and the things they were doing in it, and the
things they were born to do.

If it were not contradicted by almost every attribute of what is being
called an age of special and general culture, it would seem to be the
first axiom of all culture that knowledge can only be made to be true
knowledge, by being made to fit people, and to express them as their
clothes fit them and express them.

But we do not want knowledge in our civilisation to fit people as their
clothes fit them. We do not even want their clothes to fit them. The
people themselves do not want it. Our modern life is an elaborate and
organised endeavour, on the part of almost every person in it, to escape
from being fitted, either in knowledge or in anything else. The first
symptom of civilisation--of the fact that a man is becoming
civilised--is that he wishes to appear to belong where he does not. It
is looked upon as the spirit of the age. He wishes to be learned, that
no one may find out how little he knows. He wishes to be religious, that
no one may see how wicked he is. He wishes to be respectable, that no
one may know that he does not respect himself. The result mocks at us
from every corner in life. Society is a struggle to get into the wrong
clothes. Culture is a struggle to learn the things that belong to some
one else. Black Mollie (who is the cook next door) presented her
betrothed last week--a stable hand on the farm--with an eight-dollar
manicure set. She did not mean to sum up the condition of culture in the
United States in this simple and tender act. But she did.

Michael O'Hennessy, who lives under the hill, sums it up also. He has
just bought a brougham in which he and Mrs. O'H. can be seen almost any
pleasant Sunday driving in the Park. It is not to be denied that Michael
O'Hennessy, sitting in his brougham, is a genuinely happy-looking
object. But it is not the brougham itself that Michael enjoys. What he
enjoys is the fact that he has bought the brougham, and that the
brougham belongs to some one else. Mrs. John Brown-Smith, who presides
at our tubs from week to week, and who comes to us in a brilliant silk
waist (removed for business), has just bought a piano to play _Hold the
Fort_ on, with one finger, when the neighbours are passing by--a fact
which is not without national significance, which sheds light upon
schools and upon college catalogues and learning-shows, and upon
educational conditions through the whole United States.

It would be a great pity if a man could not know the things that have
always belonged before, to other men to know, and it is the essence of
culture that he should, but his appearing to know things that belong to
some one else--his desire to appear to know them--heaps up darkness. The
more things there are a man knows without knowing the inside of them--the
spirit of them--the more kinds of an ignoramus he is. It is not enough
to say that the learned man (learned in this way) is merely ignorant.
His ignorance is placed where it counts the most,--generally,--at the
fountain heads of society, and he radiates ignorance.

There seem to be three objections to the Dead Level of
Intelligence,--getting people at all hazards, alive or dead, to know
certain things. First, the things that a person who learns in this way
appears to know, are blighted by his appearing to know them. Second, he
keeps other people who might know them from wanting to. Third, he
poisons his own life, by appearing to know--by even desiring to appear
to know--what is not in him to know. He takes away the last hope he can
ever have of really knowing the thing he appears to know, and, unless he
is careful, the last hope he can ever have of really knowing anything.
He destroys the thing a man does his knowing with. It is not the least
pathetic phase of the great industry of being well informed, that
thousands of men and women may be seen on every hand, giving up their
lives that they may appear to live, and giving up knowledge that they
may appear to know, taking pains for vacuums. Success in appearing to
know is success in locking one's self outside of knowledge, and all that
can be said of the most learned man that lives--if he is learned in this
way--is that he knows more things that he does not know, about more
things, than any man in the world. He runs the gamut of ignorance.

In the meantime, as long as the industry of being well informed is the
main ideal of living in the world, as long as every man's life, chasing
the shadow of some other man's life, goes hurrying by, grasping at
ignorance, there is nothing we can do--most of us--as educators, but to
rescue a youth now and then from the rush and wait for results, both
good and evil, to work themselves out. Those of us who respect every
man's life, and delight in it and in the dignity of the things that
belong to it, would like to do many things. We should be particularly
glad to join hands in the "practical" things that are being hurried into
the hurry around us. But they do not seem to us practical. The only
practical thing we know of that can be done with a man who does not
respect himself, is to get him to. It is true, no doubt, that we cannot
respect another man's life for him, but we are profoundly convinced that
we cannot do anything more practical for such a man's life than
respecting it until he respects it himself, and we are convinced also
that until he does respect it himself, respecting it for him is the only
thing that any one else can do--the beginning and end of all action for
him and of all knowledge. Democracy to-day in education--as in
everything else--is facing its supreme opportunity. Going about in the
world respecting men until they respect themselves is almost the only
practical way there is of serving them.

We find it necessary to believe that any man in this present day who
shall be inspired to respect his life, who shall refuse to take to
himself the things that do not belong to his life, who shall break with
the appearance of things, who shall rejoice in the things that are
really real to him--there shall be no withstanding him. The strength of
the universe shall be in him. He shall be glorious with it. The man who
lives down through the knowledge that he has, has all the secret of all
knowledge that he does not have. The spirit that all truths are known
with, becomes his spirit. The essential mastery over all real things and
over all real men is his possession forever.

When this vital and delighted knowledge--knowledge that is based on
facts--one's own self-respecting experience with facts, shall begin
again to be the habit of the educated life, the days of the Dead Level
of Intelligence shall be numbered. Men are going to be the embodiment of
the truths they know--some-time--as they have been in the past. When the
world is filled once more with men who know what they know, learning
will cease to be a theory about a theory of life, and children will
acquire truths as helplessly and inescapably as they acquire parents.
Truths will be learned through the types of men the truths have made. A
man was meant to learn truths by gazing up and down lives--out of his
own life.

When these principles are brought home to educators--when they are
practised in some degree by the people, instead of merely, as they have
always been before, by the leaders of the people, the world of knowledge
shall be a new world. All knowledge shall be human, incarnate,
expressive, artistic. Whole systems of knowledge shall come to us by
seeing one another's faces on the street.


XI

The Art of Reading as One Likes

Most of us are apt to discover by the time we are too old to get over
it, that we are born with a natural gift for being interested in
ourselves. We realise in a general way, that our lives are not very
important--that they are being lived on a comparatively obscure but
comfortable little planet, on a side street in space--but no matter how
much we study astronomy, nor how fully we are made to feel how many
other worlds there are for people to live on, and how many other people
have lived on this one, we are still interested in ourselves.

The fact that the universe is very large is neither here nor there to
us, in a certain sense. It is a mere matter of size. A man has to live
on it. If he had to live on all of it, it would be different. It
naturally comes to pass that when a human being once discovers that he
is born in a universe like this, his first business in it is to find out
the relation of the nearest, most sympathetic part of it to himself.

After the usual first successful experiment a child makes in making
connection with the universe, the next thing he learns is how much of
the universe there is that is not good to eat. He does not quite
understand it at first--the unswallowableness of things. He soon comes
to the conclusion that, although it is worth while as a general
principle, in dealing with a universe, to try to make the connection, as
a rule, with one's mouth, it cannot be expected to succeed except part
of the time. He looks for another connection. He learns that some things
in this world are merely made to feel, and drop on the floor. He
discovers each of his senses by trying to make some other sense work. If
his mouth waters for the moon, and he tries to smack his lips on a
lullaby, who shall smile at him, poor little fellow, making his sturdy
lunges at this huge, impenetrable world? He is making his connection and
getting his hold on his world of colour and sense and sound, with
infinitely more truth and patience and precision and delight than nine
out of ten of his elders are doing or have ever been able to do, in the
world of books.

The books that were written to be breathed--gravely chewed upon by the
literary infants of this modern day,--who can number them?--books that
were made to live in--vast, open clearings in the thicket of
life--chapters like tents to dwell in under the wide heaven, visited
like railway stations by excursion trains of readers,--books that were
made to look down from--serene mountain heights criticised because
factories are not founded on them--in every reading-room hundreds of
people (who has not seen them?), looking up inspirations in
encyclopaedias, poring over poems for facts, looking in the clouds for
seeds, digging in the ground for sunsets; and everywhere through all the
world, the whole huddling, crowding mob of those who read, hastening on
its endless paper-paved streets, from the pyramids of Egypt and the
gates of Greece, to Pater Noster Row and the Old Corner Book
Store--nearly all of them trying to make the wrong connections with the
right things or the right connections with things they have no
connection with, and only now and then a straggler lagging behind
perhaps, at some left-over bookstall, who truly knows how to read, or
some beautiful, over-grown child let loose in a library--making
connections for himself, who knows the uttermost joy of a book.

In seeking for a fundamental principle to proceed upon in the reading of
books, it seems only reasonable to assert that the printed universe is
governed by the same laws as the real one. If a child is to have his
senses about him--his five reading senses--he must learn them in exactly
the way he learns his five living senses. The most significant fact
about the way a child learns the five senses he has to live with is,
that no one can teach them to him. We do not even try to. There are
still--thanks to a most merciful Heaven--five things left in the poor,
experimented-on, battered, modern child, that a board of education
cannot get at. For the first few months of his life, at least, it is
generally conceded, the modern infant has his education--that is, his
making connection with things--entirely in his own hands. That he learns
more these first few months of his life when his education is in his own
hands, than he learns in all the later days when he is surrounded by
those who hope they are teaching him something, it may not be fair to
say; but while it cannot be said that he learns more perhaps, what he
does learn, he learns better, and more scientifically, than he is ever
allowed to learn with ordinary parents and ordinary teachers and
text-books in the years that come afterward. With most of us, this first
year or so, we are obliged to confess, was the chance of our lives. Some
of us have lived long enough to suspect that if we have ever really
learned anything at all we must have learned it then.

The whole problem of bringing to pass in others and of maintaining in
ourselves a vital and beautiful relation to the world of books, turns
entirely upon such success as we may have in calling back or keeping up
in our attitude toward books, the attitude of the new-born child when he
wakes in the sunshine of the earth, and little by little on the edge of
the infinite, groping and slow, begins to make his connections with the
universe. It cannot be over-emphasised that this new-born child makes
these connections for himself, that the entire value of having these
connections made is in the fact that he makes them for himself. As
between the books in a library that ought to be read, and a new life
standing in it, that ought to read them, the sacred thing is not the
books the child ought to read. The sacred thing is the way the child
feels about the books; and unless the new life, like the needle of a
magnet trembling there under the whole wide heaven of them all, is
allowed to turn and poise itself by laws of attraction and repulsion
forever left out of our hands, the magnet is ruined. It is made a dead
thing. It makes no difference how many similar books may be placed
within range of the dead thing afterward, nor how many good reasons
there may be for the dead thing's being attracted to them, the poise of
the magnet toward a book, which is the sole secret of any power that a
book can have, is trained and disciplined out of it. The poise of the
magnet, the magnet's poising itself, is inspiration, and inspiration is
what a book is for.

If John Milton had had any idea when he wrote the little book called
_Paradise Lost_ that it was going to be used mostly during the
nineteenth century to batter children's minds with, it is doubtful if he
would ever have had the heart to write it. It does not damage a book
very much to let it lie on a wooden shelf little longer than it ought
to. But to come crashing down into the exquisite filaments of a human
brain with it, to use it to keep a brain from continuing to be a
brain--that is, an organ with all its reading senses acting and reacting
warm and living in it, is a very serious matter. It always ends in the
same way, this modern brutality with books. Even Bibles cannot stand it.
Human nature stands it least of all. That books of all things in this
world, made to open men's instincts with, should be so generally used to
shut them up with, is one of the saddest signs we have of the caricature
of culture that is having its way in our modern world. It is getting so
that the only way the average dinned-at, educated modern boy, shut in
with masterpieces, can really get to read is in some still overlooked
moment when people are too tired of him to do him good. Then softly,
perhaps guiltily, left all by himself with a book, he stumbles all of a
sudden on his soul--steals out and loves something. It may not be the
best, but listening to the singing of the crickets is more worth while
than seeming to listen to the music of the spheres. It leads to the
music of the spheres. All agencies, persons, institutions, or customs
that interfere with this sensitive, self-discovering moment when a human
spirit makes its connection in life with its ideal, that interfere with
its being a genuine, instinctive, free and beautiful connection, living
and growing daily of itself,--all influences that tend to make it a
formal connection or a merely decorous or borrowed one, whether they act
in the name of culture or religion or the state, are the profoundest,
most subtle, and most unconquerable enemies of culture in the world.

It is not necessary to contend for the doctrine of reading as one
likes--using the word "likes" in the sense of direction and
temperament--in its larger and more permanent sense. It is but necessary
to call attention to the fact that the universe of books is such a very
large and various universe, a universe in which so much that one likes
can be brought to bear at any given point, that reading as one likes is
almost always safe in it. There is always more of what one likes than
one can possibly read. It is impossible to like any one thing deeply
without discovering a hundred other things to like with it. One is
infallibly led out. If one touches the universe vitally at one point,
all the rest of the universe flocks to it. It is the way a universe is
made.

Almost anything can be accomplished with a child who has a habit of
being eager with books, who respects them enough, and who respects
himself enough, to leave books alone when he cannot be eager with them.
Eagerness in reading counts as much as it does in living. A live reader
who reads the wrong books is more promising than a dead one who reads
the right ones. Being alive is the point. Anything can be done with
life. It is the Seed of Infinity.

While much might be said for the topical or purely scientific method in
learning how to read, it certainly is not claiming too much for the
human, artistic, or personal point of view in reading, that it comes
first in the order of time in a developing life and first in the order
of strategic importance. Topical or scientific reading cannot be
fruitful; it cannot even be scientific, in the larger sense, except as,
in its own time and in its own way, it selects itself in due time in a
boy's life, buds out, and is allowed to branch out, from his own inner
personal reading.

As the first and most important and most far-reaching of the arts of
reading is the Art of Reading as One Likes, the principles,
inspirations, and difficulties of reading as one likes are the first to
be considered in the following chapters.

The fact that the art of reading as one likes is the most difficult,
perhaps the most impossible, of all the arts in modern times,
constitutes one of those serio-comic problems of civilisation--a problem
which civilisation itself, with all its swagger of science, its literary
braggadocio, its Library Cure, with all its Board Schools, Commissioners
of Education and specialists, and bishops and newsboys, all hard at work
upon it, is only beginning to realise.




The Second Interference: The Disgrace of the Imagination


I

On Wondering Why One Was Born

The real trouble with most of the attempts that teachers and parents
make, to teach children a vital relation to books, is that they do not
believe in the books and that they do not believe in the children.

It is almost impossible to find a child who, in one direction or
another, the first few years of his life, is not creative. It is almost
impossible to find a parent or a teacher who does not discourage this
creativeness. The discouragement begins in a small way, at first, in the
average family, but as the more creative a child becomes the more
inconvenient he is, as a general rule, every time a boy is caught being
creative, something has to be done to him about it.

It is a part of the nature of creativeness that it involves being
creative a large part of the time in the wrong direction. Half-proud and
half-stupefied parents, failing to see that the mischief in a boy is the
entire basis of his education, the mainspring of his life, not being
able to break the mainspring themselves, frequently hire teachers to
help them. The teacher who can break a mainspring first and keep it from
getting mended, is often the most esteemed in the community. Those who
have broken the most, "secure results." The spectacle of the mechanical,
barren, conventional society so common in the present day to all who
love their kind is a sign there is no withstanding. It is a spectacle we
can only stand and watch--some of us,--the huge, dreary kinetoscope of
it, grinding its cogs and wheels, and swinging its weary faces past our
eyes. The most common sight in it and the one that hurts the hardest, is
the boy who could be made into a man out of the parts of him that his
parents and teachers are trying to throw away. The faults of the average
child, as things are going just now, would be the making of him, if he
could be placed in seeing hands. It may not be possible to educate a boy
by using what has been left out of him, but it is more than possible to
begin his education by using what ought to have been left out of him. So
long as parents and teachers are either too dull or too busy to
experiment with mischief, to be willing to pay for a child's originality
what originality costs, only the most hopeless children can be expected
to amount to anything. If we fail to see that originality is worth
paying for, that the risk involved in a child's not being creative is
infinitely more serious than the risk involved in his being creative in
the wrong direction, there is little either for us or for our children
to hope for, as the years go on, except to grow duller together. We do
not like this growing duller together very well, perhaps, but we have
the feeling at least that we have been educated, and when our children
become at last as little interested in the workings of their minds, as
parents and teachers are in theirs, we have the feeling that they also
have been educated. We are not unwilling to admit, in a somewhat
useless, kindly, generalising fashion, that vital and beautiful children
delight in things, in proportion as they discover them, or are allowed
to make them up, but we do not propose in the meantime to have our own
children any more vital and beautiful than we can help. In four or five
years they discover that a home is a place where the more one thinks of
things, the more unhappy he is. In four or five years more they learn
that a school is a place where children are expected not to use their
brains while they are being cultivated. As long as he is at his mother's
breast the typical American child finds that he is admired for thinking
of things. When he runs around the house he finds gradually that he is
admired very much less for thinking of things. At school he is
disciplined for it. In a library, if he has an uncommonly active mind,
and takes the liberty of being as alive there, as he is outdoors, if he
roams through the books, vaults over their fences, climbs up their
mountains, and eats of their fruit, and dreams by their streams, or is
caught camping out in their woods, he is made an example of. He is
treated as a tramp and an idler, and if he cannot be held down with a
dictionary he is looked upon as not worth educating. If his parents
decide he shall be educated anyway, dead or alive, or in spite of his
being alive, the more he is educated the more he wonders why he was born
and the more his teachers from behind their dictionaries, and the other
boys from underneath their dictionaries, wonder why he was born. While
it may be a general principle that the longer a boy wonders why he was
born in conditions like these, and the longer his teachers and parents
wonder, the more there is of him, it may be observed that a general
principle is not of very much comfort to the boy while the process of
wondering is going on. There seems to be no escape from the process, and
if, while he is being educated, he is not allowed to use himself, he can
hardly be blamed for spending a good deal of his time in wondering why
he is not some one else. In a half-seeing, half-blinded fashion he
struggles on. If he is obstinate enough, he manages to struggle through
with his eyes shut. Sometimes he belongs to a higher kind, and opens his
eyes and struggles.

With the average boy the struggle with the School and the Church is less
vigorous than the struggle at home. It is more hopeless. A mother is a
comparatively simple affair. One can either manage a mother or be
managed. It is merely a matter of time. It is soon settled. There is
something there. She is not boundless, intangible. The School and the
Church are different. With the first fresh breaths of the world tingling
in him, the youth stands before them. They are entirely new to him. They
are huge, immeasurable, unaccountable. They loom over him--a part of the
structure of the universe itself. A mother can meet one in a door. The
problem is concentrated. The Church stretches beyond the sunrise. The
School is part of the horizon of the earth, and what after all is his
own life and who is he that he should take account of it? Out of
space--out of time--out of history they come to him--the Church and the
School. They are the assembling of all mankind around his soul. Each
with its Cone of Ether, its desire to control the breath of his life,
its determination to do his breathing for him, to push the Cone down
over him, looms above him and above all in sight, before he
speaks--before he is able to speak.

It is soon over. He lies passive and insensible at last,--as convenient
as though he were dead, and the Church and the School operate upon him.
They remove as many of his natural organs as they can, put in
Presbyterian ones perhaps, or School-Board ones instead. Those that
cannot be removed are numbed. When the time is fulfilled and the youth
is cured of enough life at last to like living with the dead, and when
it is thought he is enough like every one else to do, he is given his
degree and sewed up.

After the sewing up his history is better imagined than described. Not
being interesting to himself, he is not apt to be very interesting to
any one else, and because of his lack of interest in himself he is
called the average man.[1]

    [1] A Typical Case: "The brain was cut away neatly and dressed.
        A healthy yearling calf was tied down, her skull cut away,
        and a lobe of brain removed and fitted into the cavity in
        L's head. The wound was dressed and trephined, and the
        results awaited. The calf's head was fixed up with half a
        brain in it. Both the man and the calf have progressed
        satisfactorily, and the man is nearly as well as before the
        operation."--Daily Paper.

The main distinction of every greater or more extraordinary book is that
it has been written by an extraordinary man--a natural or wild man, a
man of genius, who has never been operated on. The main distinction of
the man of talent is that he has somehow managed to escape a complete
operation. It is a matter of common observation in reading biography
that in proportion as men have had lasting power in the world there has
been something irregular in their education. These irregularities,
whether they happen to be due to overwhelming circumstance or to
overwhelming temperament, seem to sum themselves up in one fundamental
and comprehensive irregularity that penetrates them all--namely, every
powerful mind, in proportion to its power, either in school or out of it
or in spite of it, has educated itself. The ability that many men have
used to avoid being educated is exactly the same ability they have used
afterward to move the world with. In proportion as they have moved the
world, they are found to have kept the lead in their education from
their earliest years, to have had a habit of initiative as well as
hospitality, to have maintained a creative, selective, active attitude
toward all persons and toward all books that have been brought within
range of their lives.


II

The Top of the Bureau Principle

The experience of being robbed of a story we are about to read, by the
good friend who cannot help telling how it comes out, is an occasional
experience in the lives of older people, but it sums up the main
sensation of life in the career of a child. The whole existence of a boy
may be said to be a daily--almost hourly--struggle to escape from being
told things.

It has been found that the best way to emphasise a fact in the mind of a
bright boy is to discover some way of not saying anything about it. And
this is not because human nature is obstinate, but because facts have
been intended from the beginning of the world to speak for themselves,
and to speak better than anyone can speak for them. When a fact speaks,
God speaks. Considering the way that most persons who are talking about
the truth see fit to rush in and interrupt Him, the wonder is not that
children grow less and less interested in truth as they grow older, but
that they are interested in truth at all--even lies about the truth.

The real trouble with most men and women as parents is, that they have
had to begin life with parents of their own. When the child's first
memory of God is a father or mother interrupting Him, he is apt to be
under the impression, when he grows up, that God can only be introduced
to his own children by never being allowed to get a word in. If we as
much as see a Fact coming toward a child--most of us--we either run out
where the child is, and bring him into the house and cry over him, or we
rush to his side and look anxious and stand in front of the Fact, and
talk to him about it.

And yet it is doubtful if there has ever been a boy as yet worth
mentioning, who did not wish we would stand a little more one side--let
him have it out with things. He is very weary--if he really amounts to
anything--of having everything about him prepared for him. There has
never been a live boy who would not throw a store-plaything away in two
or three hours for a comparatively imperfect plaything he had made
himself. He is equally indifferent to a store Fact, and a boy who does
not see through a store-God, or a store-book, or a store-education
sooner than ninety-nine parents out of a hundred and sooner than most
synods, is not worth bringing up.

No just or comprehensive principle can be found to govern the reading of
books that cannot be made to apply, by one who really believes it
(though in varying degrees), to the genius and to the dolt. It is a
matter of history that a boy of fine creative powers can only be taught
a true relation to books through an appeal to his own discoveries; but
what is being especially contended for, and what most needs to be
emphasised in current education, is the fact that the boy of ordinary
creative powers can only be taught to read in the same way--by a slower,
broader, and more patient appeal to his own discoveries. The boy of no
creative powers whatever, if he is ever born, should not be taught to
read at all. Creation is the essence of knowing, and teaching him to
read merely teaches him more ways of not knowing. It gives him a wider
range of places to be a nobody in--takes away his last opportunity for
thinking of anything--that is, getting the meaning of anything for
himself. If a man's heart does not beat for him, why substitute a
hot-water bottle? The less a mind is able to do, the less it can afford
to have anything done for it. It will be a great day for education when
we all have learned that the genius and the dolt can only be
educated--at different rates of speed--in exactly the same way. The
trouble with our education now is, that many of us do not see that a boy
who has been presented with an imitation brain is a deal worse off than
a boy who, in spite of his teachers, has managed to save his real one,
and has not used it yet.

It is dangerous to give a program for a principle to those who do not
believe in the principle, and who do not believe in it instinctively,
but if a program were to be given it would be something like this: It
would assume that the best way to do with an uncreative mind is to put
the owner of it where his mind will be obliged to create.

First. Decide what the owner of the mind most wants in the world.

Second. Put this thing, whatever it may be where the owner of the mind
cannot get it unless he uses his mind. Take pains to put it where he can
get it, if he does use his mind.

Third. Lure him on. It is education.

If this principle is properly applied to books, there is not a human
being living on the earth who will not find himself capable of reading
books--as far as he goes--with his whole mind and his whole body. He
will read a printed page as eagerly as he lives, and he will read it in
exactly the same way that he lives--with his imagination. A boy lives
with his imagination every hour of His life--except in school. The
moment he discovers, or is allowed to discover, that reading a book and
living a day are very much alike, that they are both parts of the same
act, and that they are both properly done in the same way, he will drink
up knowledge as Job did scorning, like water.

But it is objected that many children are entirely imitative, and that
the imagination cannot be appealed to with them and that they cut
themselves off from creativeness at every point.

While it is inevitable in the nature of things that many children should
be largely imitative, there is not a child that does not do some of his
imitating in a creative way, give the hint to his teachers even in his
imitations, of where his creativeness would come if it were allowed to.
His very blunders in imitating, point to desires that would make him
creative of themselves, if followed up. Some children have many desires
in behalf of which they become creative. Others are creative only in
behalf of a few. But there is always a single desire in a child's nature
through which his creativeness can be called out.

A boy learns to live, to command his body, through the desires which
make him creative with it--hunger, and movement, and sleep--desires the
very vegetables are stirred with, and the boy who does not find himself
responding to them, who can help responding to them, does not exist.
There may be times when a boy has no desire to fill himself with food,
and when he has no desire to think, but if he is kept hungry he is soon
found doing both--thinking things into his stomach. A stomach, in the
average boy, will all but take the part of a brain itself, for the time
being, to avoid being empty. If a human being is alive at all, there is
always at least one desire he can be educated with, prodded into
creativeness, until he learns the habit and the pleasure of it. The best
qualification for a nurse for a child whose creativeness turns on his
stomach, is a natural gift for keeping food on the tops of bureaus and
shelves just out of reach. The best qualification for a teacher is
infinite contrivance in high bureaus. The applying of the Top of the
High Bureau to all knowledge and to all books is what true education is
for.

It is generally considered a dangerous thing to do, to turn a child
loose in a library. It might fairly be called a dangerous thing to do if
it were not much more dangerous not to. The same forces that wrought
themselves into the books when they were being made can be trusted to
gather and play across them on the shelves. These forces are the
self-propelling and self-healing forces of the creative mood. The
creative mood protects the books, and it protects all who come near the
books. It protects from the inside. It toughens and makes supple.
Parents who cannot trust a boy to face the weather in a library should
never let him outdoors.

Trusting a boy to the weather in a library may have its momentary
embarrassments, but it is immeasurably the shortest and most natural way
to bring him into a vital connection with books. The first condition of
a vital connection with books is that he shall make the connection for
himself. The relation will be vital in proportion as he makes it
himself.

The fact that he will begin to use his five reading senses by trying to
connect in the wrong way, or by connecting with the wrong books or parts
of books, is a reason, not for action on the part of parents and
teachers, but for inspired waiting. As a vital relation to books is the
most immeasurable outfit for living and the most perfect protection
against the dangers of life, a boy can have, the one point to be borne
in mind is not the book but the boy--the instinct of curiosity in the
boy.

A boy who has all his good discoveries in books made for him--spoiled
for him, if he has any good material in him--will proceed to make bad
ones. The vices would be nearly as safe from interference as the
virtues, if they were faithfully cultivated in Sunday-schools or by
average teachers in day-schools. Sin itself is uninteresting when one
knows all about it. The interest of the average young man in many a more
important sin to-day is only kept up by the fact that no one stands by
with a book teaching him how to do it. Whatever the expression "original
sin" may have meant in the first place, it means now that we are full of
original sin because we are not given a chance to be original in
anything else. A virtue may be defined as an act so good that a
religiously trained youth cannot possibly learn anything more about it.
A classic is a pleasure hurried into a responsibility, a book read by
every man before he has anything to read it with. A classical author is
a man who, if he could look ahead--could see the generations standing in
rows to read his book, toeing the line to love it--would not read it
himself.

Any training in the use of books that does not base its whole method of
rousing the instinct of curiosity, and keeping it aroused, is a
wholesale slaughter, not only of the minds that might live in the books,
but of the books themselves. To ignore the central curiosity of a
child's life, his natural power of self-discovery in books, is to
dispense with the force of gravity in books, instead of taking advantage
of it.




The Third Interference: The Unpopularity of the First Person Singular


I

The First Person a Necessary Evil

Great emphasis is being laid at the present time upon the tools that
readers ought to have to do their reading with. We seem to be living in
a reference-book age. Whatever else may be claimed for our own special
generation it stands out as having one inspiration that is quite its
own--the inspiration of conveniences. That these conveniences have their
place, that one ought to have the best of them there can be no doubt,
but it is very important to bear in mind, particularly in the present
public mood, that if one cannot have all of these conveniences, or even
the best of them, the one absolutely necessary reference book in reading
the masters of literature is one that every man has.

It is something of a commonplace--a rather modest volume with most of
us, summed up on a tombstone generally, easily enough, but we are bound
to believe after all is said and done that the great masterpiece among
reference books, for every man,--the one originally intended by the
Creator for every man to use,--is the reference book of his own life. We
believe that the one direct and necessary thing for a man to do, if he
is going to be a good reader, is to make, this reference book--his own
private edition of it--as large and complete as possible. Everything
refers to it, whatever his reading is. Shakespeare and the New York
_World_, Homer and _Harper's Bazar_, Victor Hugo and _The Forum_,
_Babyhood_ and the Bible all refer to it,--are all alike in making their
references (when they are really looked up) to private editions. Other
editions do not work. In proportion as they are powerful in modern life,
all the books and papers that we have are engaged in the business of
going about the world discovering people to themselves, unroofing first
person singulars in it, getting people to use their own reference books
on all life. Literature is a kind of vast international industry of
comparing life. We read to look up references in our own souls. The
immortality of Homer and the circulation of the _Ladies' Home Journal_
both conform to this fact, and it is equally the secret of the last page
of _Harper's Bazar_ and of Hamlet and of the grave and monthly lunge of
_The Forum_ at passing events. The difference of appeal may be as wide
as the east and the west, but the east and the west are in human nature
and not in the nature of the appeal. The larger selves look themselves
up in the greater writers and the smaller selves spell themselves out in
the smaller ones. It is here we all behold as in some vast reflection or
mirage of the reading world our own souls crowding and jostling, little
and great, against the walls of their years, seeking to be let out, to
look out, to look over, to look up--that they may find their possible
selves.

When men are allowed to follow what might be called the forces of nature
in the reading world they are seen to read:

    1st. About themselves.

    2nd. About people they know.

    3rd. About people they want to know.

    4th. God.

Next to their interest in persons is their interest in things:

    1st. Things that they have themselves.

    2nd. Things that people they know, have.

    3rd. Things they want to have.

    4th. Things they ought to want to have.

    5th. Other things.

    6th. The universe--things God has.

    7th. God.

A scale like this may not be very complimentary to human nature. Some
of us feel that it is appropriate and possibly a little religious to
think that it is not. But the scale is here. It is mere
psychological-matter-of-fact. It is the way things are made, and while
it may not be quite complimentary to human nature, it seems to be more
complimentary to God to believe, in spite of appearances, that this
scale from I to God is made right and should be used as it stands. It
seems to have been in general use among our more considerable men in the
world and among all our great men and among all who have made others
great. They do not seem to have been ashamed of it. They have climbed up
frankly on it--most of them, in full sight of all men--from I to God.
They have claimed that everybody (including themselves) was identified
with God, and they have made people believe it. It is the few in every
generation who have dared to believe in this scale, and who have used
it, who have been the leaders of the rest. The measure of a man's being
seems to be the swiftness with which his nature runs from the bottom of
this scale to the top, the swiftness with which he identifies himself,
says "I" in all of it. The measure of his ability to read on any
particular subject is the swiftness with which he runs the scale from
the bottom to the top on that subject, makes the trip with his soul from
his own little I to God. When he has mastered the subject, he makes the
run almost without knowing it, sees it as it is, _i. e._, identifies
himself with God on it. The principle is one which reaches under all
mastery in the world, from the art of prophecy even to the art of
politeness. Tho man who makes the trip on any subject from the first
person out through the second person to the farthest bounds of the third
person,--that is, who identifies himself with all men's lives, is called
the poet or seer, the master-lover of persons. The man who makes the
trip most swiftly from his own things to other men's things and to God's
things--the Universe--is called the scientist, the master-lover of
things. The God is he who identifies his own personal life, with all
lives and his own things with all men's things--who says "I" forever
everywhere.

The reason that the Hebrew Bible has had more influence in history than
all other literatures combined, is that there are fewer emasculated men
in it. The one really fundamental and astonishing thing about the Bible
is the way that people have of talking about themselves in it. No other
nation that has ever existed on the earth would ever have thought of
daring to publish a book like the Bible. So far as the plot is
concerned, the fundamental literary conception, it is all the Bible
comes to practically--two or three thousand years of it--a long row of
people talking about themselves. The Hebrew nation has been the leading
power in history because the Hebrew man, in spite of all his faults has
always had the feeling that God sympathised with him, in being
interested in himself. He has dared to feel identified with God. It is
the same in all ages--not an age but one sees a Hebrew in it, out under
his lonely heaven standing and crying "God and I." It is the one great
spectacle of the Soul this little world has seen. Are not the mightiest
faces that come to us flickering out of the dark, their faces? Who can
look at the past who does not see--who does not always see--some mighty
Hebrew in it singing and struggling with God? What is it--what else
could it possibly be but the Hebrew soul, like a kind of pageantry down
the years between us and God, that would ever have made us guess--men of
the other nations--that a God belonged to us, or that a God could belong
to us and be a God at all? Have not all the other races, each in their
turn spawning in the sun and lost in the night, vanished because they
could not say "I" before God? The nations that are left, the great
nations of the modern world, are but the moral passengers of the
Hebrews, hangers-on to the race that can say "I"--I to the _n^th_
power,--the race that has dared to identify itself with God. The fact
that the Hebrew, instead of saying God and I, has turned it around
sometimes and said I and God is neither here nor there in the end. It is
because the Hebrew has kept to the main point, has felt related to God
(the main point a God cares about), that he has been the most heroic and
athletic figure in human history--comes nearer to the God-size. The rest
of the nations sitting about and wondering in the dark, have called this
thing in the Hebrew "religious genius." If one were to try to sum up
what religious genius is, in the Hebrew, or to account for the spiritual
and material supremacy of the Hebrew in history, in a single fact, it
would be the fact that Moses, their first great leader, when he wanted
to say "It seems to me," said "The Lord said unto Moses."

The Hebrews may have written a book that teaches, of all others,
self-renunciation, but the way they taught it was self-assertion. The
Bible begins with a meek Moses who teaches by saying "The Lord said unto
Moses," and it comes to its climax in a lowly and radiant man who dies
on a cross to say "I and the Father are one." The man Jesus seems to
have called himself God because he had a divine habit of identifying
himself, because he had kept on identifying himself with others until
the first person and the second person and the third person were as one
to him. The distinction of the New Testament is that it is the one book
the world has seen, which dispenses with pronouns. It is a book that
sums up pronouns and numbers, singular and plural, first person, second
and third person, and all, in the one great central pronoun of the
universe. The very stars speak it--WE.

We is a developed I.

The first person may not be what it ought to be either as a philosophy
or an experience, but it has been considered good enough to make Bibles
out of, and it does seem as if a good word might occasionally be said
for it in modern times, as if some one ought to be born before long, who
will give it a certain standing, a certain moral respectability once
more in human life and in the education of human life.

It would not seem to be an overstatement that the best possible book to
give a child to read at any time is the one that makes the most cross
references at that time to his undeveloped We.


II

The Art of Being Anonymous

The main difficulty in getting a child to live in the whole of his
nature, to run the scale from the bottom to the top, from "I" to God, is
to persuade his parents and teachers, and the people who crowd around
him to educate him, that he must begin at the bottom.

The Unpopularity of the First Person Singular in current education
naturally follows from The Disgrace of the Imagination in it. Our
typical school is not satisfied with cutting off a boy's imagination
about the outer world that lies around him. It amputates his imagination
at its tap root. It stops a boy's imagination about himself, and the
issues, connections, and possibilities of his own life.

Inasmuch as the education of a child--his relation to books--must be
conducted either with reference to evading personality, or accumulating
it, the issue is one that must be squarely drawn from the first.
Beginning at the bottom is found by society at large to be such an
inconvenient and painstaking process, that the children who are allowed
to lay a foundation for personality--to say "I" in its disagreeable
stages--seem to be confined, for the most part, to either one or the
other of two classes--the Incurable or the Callous. The more thorough a
child's nature is, the more real his processes are, the more incurable
he is bound to be--secretly if he is sensitive, and offensively if he is
callous. In either case the fact is the same. The child unconsciously
acts on the principle that self-assertion is self-preservation. One of
the first things that he discovers is that self-preservation is the last
thing polite parents desire in a child. If he is to be preserved, they
will preserve him themselves.

The conspiracy begins in the earliest days. The world rolls over him.
The home and the church and the school and the printed book roll over
him. The story is the same in all. Education--originally conceived as
drawing a boy out--becomes a huge, elaborate, overwhelming scheme for
squeezing him in--for keeping him squeezed in. He is mobbed on every
side. At school the teachers crowd round him and say "I" for him. At
home his parents say "I" for him. At church the preacher says "I" for
him. And when he retreats into the privacy of his own soul and betakes
himself to a book, the book is a classic and the book says "I" for him.
When he says "I" himself after a few appropriate years, he says it in
disguised quotation marks. If he cannot always avoid it--if in some
unguarded moment he is particularly alive about something and the "I"
comes out on it, society expects him to be ashamed of it, at least to
avoid the appearance of not being ashamed of it. If he writes he is
desired to say "we." Sometimes he shades himself off into "the present
writer." Sometimes he capitulates in bare initials.

There are very few people who do not live in quotation marks most of
their lives. They would die in them and go to heaven in them, if they
could. Nine times out of ten it is some one else's heaven they want to
go to. The number of people who would know what to do or how to act in
this world or the next, without their quotation marks on, is getting
more limited every year.

And yet one could not very well imagine a world more prostrate that this
one is, before a man without quotation marks. It dotes on personality.
It spends hundreds of years at a time in yearning for a great man. But
it wants its great man finished. It is never willing to pay what he
costs. It is particularly unwilling to pay what he costs as it goes
along. The great man as a boy has had to pay for himself. The bare feat
of keeping out of quotation marks has cost him generally more than he
thought he was worth--and has had to be paid in advance.

There is a certain sense in which it is true that every boy, at least at
the point where he is especially alive, is a kind of great man in
miniature--has the same experience, that is, in growing. Many a boy who
has been regularly represented to himself as a monster, a curiosity of
selfishness (and who has believed it), has had occasion to observe when
he grew up that some of his selfishness was real selfishness and that
some of it was life. The things he was selfish with, he finds as he
grows older, are the things he has been making a man out of. As a boy,
however, he does not get much inkling of this. He finds he is being
brought up in a world where boys who so little know how to play with
their things that they give them away, are pointed out to him as
generous, and where boys who are so bored with their own minds that they
prefer other people's, are considered modest. If he knew in the days
when models are being pointed out to him, that the time would soon come
in the world for boys like these when it would make little difference
either to the boys themselves, or to any one else, whether they were
generous or modest or not, it would make his education happier. In the
meantime, in his disgrace, he does not guess what a good example to
models he is. Very few other people guess it.

The general truth, that when a man has nothing to be generous with, and
nothing to be modest about, even his virtues are superfluous, is
realised by society at large in a pleasant helpless fashion in its
bearing on the man, but its bearing on the next man, on education, on
the problem of human development, is almost totally overlooked.

The youth who grasps at everything in sight to have his experience with
it, who cares more for the thing than he does for the person it comes
from, and more for his experience with the thing than he does for the
thing, is by no means an inspiring spectacle while this process is going
on, and he is naturally in perpetual disgrace, but in proportion as they
are wise, our best educators are aware that in all probability this same
youth will wield more spiritual power in the world, and do more good in
it, than nine or ten pleasantly smoothed and adjustable persons. His
boy-faults are his man-virtues wrongside out.

There are very few lives of powerful men in modern times that do not
illustrate this. The men who do not believe it--who do not approve of
illustrating it, have illustrated it the most--devoted their lives to
it. It would be hard to find a man of any special importance in modern
biography who has not been indebted to the sins of his youth. "It is the
things I ought not to have done--see page 93, 179, 321," says the
average autobiography, "which have been the making of me." "They were
all good things for me to do (see page 526, 632, 720), but I did not
think so when I did them. Neither did any one else." "Studying
Shakespeare and the theatre in the theological seminary, and taking
walks instead of examinations in college," says the biography of Beecher
(between the lines), "meant definite moral degeneration to me. I did
habitually what I could not justify at the time, either to myself or to
others, and I have had to make up since for all the moral degeneration,
item by item, but the things I got with the degeneration when I got
it--habits of imagination, and expression, headway of personality--are
the things that have given me all my inspirations for being moral
since." "What love of liberty I have," Wendell Phillips seems to say, "I
got from loving my own." It is the boy who loves his liberty so much
that he insists on having it to do wrong with, as well as right, who in
the long run gets the most right done. The basis of character is moral
experiment and almost all the men who have discovered different or
beautiful or right habits of life for men, have discovered them by doing
wrong long enough. (The ice is thin at this point, Gentle Reader, for
many of us, perhaps, but it has held up our betters.) The fact of the
matter seems to be that a man's conscience in this world, especially if
it is an educated one, or borrowed from his parents, can get as much in
his way as anything else. There is no doubt that The Great Spirit
prefers to lead a man by his conscience, but if it cannot be done, if a
man's conscience has no conveniences for being led, He leads him against
his conscience. The doctrine runs along the edge of a precipice (like
all the best ones), but if there is one gift rather than another to be
prayed for in this world it is the ability to recognise the crucial
moment that sometimes comes in a human life--the moment when The
Almighty Himself gets a man--against his conscience--to do right. It
seems to be the way that some consciences are meant to grow, by trying
wrong things on a little. Thousands of inferior people can be seen every
day stumbling over their sins to heaven, while the rest of us are
holding back with our virtues. It has been intimated from time to time
in this world that all men are sinners. Inasmuch as things are arranged
so that men can sin in doing right things, and sin in doing wrong ones
both, they can hardly miss it. The real religion of every age seems to
have looked a little askance at perfection, even at purity, has gone its
way in a kind of fine straightforwardness, has spent itself in an
inspired blundering, in progressive noble culminating moral experiment.

The basis for a great character seems to be the capacity for intense
experience with the character one already has. So far as most of us can
judge, experience, in proportion as it has been conclusive and
economical, has had to be (literally or with one's imagination) in the
first person. The world has never really wanted yet (in spite of
appearances) its own way with a man. It wants the man. It is what he is
that concerns it. All that it asks of him, and all that he has to give,
is the surplus of himself. The trouble with our modern fashion of
substituting the second person or the third person for the first, in a
man's education, is that it takes his capacity for intense experience of
himself, his chance for having a surplus of himself, entirely away.


III

Egoism and Society

That the unpopularity of the first person singular is honestly acquired
and heartily deserved, it would be useless to deny. Every one who has
ever had a first person singular for a longer or shorter period in his
life knows that it is a disagreeable thing and that every one else knows
it, in nine cases out of ten, at least, and about nine tenths of the
time during its development. The fundamental question does not concern
itself with the first person singular being agreeable or disagreeable,
but with what to do with it, it being the necessary evil that it is.

It seems to be a reasonable position that what should be objected to in
the interests of society, is not egoism, a man's being interested in
himself, but the lack of egoism, a man's having a self that does not
include others. The trouble would seem to be--not that people use their
own private special monosyllable overmuch, but that there is not enough
of it, that nine times out of ten, when they write "I" it should be
written "i."

In the face of the political objection, the objection of the State to
the first person singular, the egoist defends every man's reading for
himself as follows. Any book that is allowed to come between a man and
himself is doing him and all who know him a public injury. The most
important and interesting fact about a man, to other people, is his
attitude toward himself. It determines his attitude toward every one
else. The most fundamental question of every State is: "What is each
man's attitude in this State toward himself? What can it be?" A man's
expectancy toward himself, so far as the State is concerned, is the
moral centre of citizenship. It determines how much of what he expects
he will expect of himself, and how much he will expect of others and how
much of books. The man who expects too much of himself develops into the
headlong and dangerous citizen who threatens society with his
strength--goes elbowing about in it--insisting upon living other
people's lives for them as well as his own. The man who expects too much
of others threatens society with weariness. He is always expecting other
people to do his living for him. The man who expects too much of books
lives neither in himself nor in any one else. The career of the Paper
Doll is open to him. History seems to be always taking turns with these
three temperaments whether in art or religion or public affairs,--the
over-manned, the under-manned, and the over-read--the Tyrant, the Tramp,
and the Paper Doll. Between the man who keeps things in his own hands,
and the man who does not care to, and the man who has no hands, the
State has a hard time. Nothing could be more important to the existence
of the State than that every man in it shall expect just enough of
himself and just enough of others and just enough of the world of books.
Living is adjusting these worlds to one another. The central fact about
society is the way it helps a man with himself. The society which cuts a
man off from himself cuts him still farther off from every one else. A
man's reading in the first person--enough to have a first person--enough
to be identified with himself, is one of the defences of society.


IV

i + I = We

The most natural course for a human being, who is going to identify
himself with other people, is to begin by practising on himself. If he
has not succeeded in identifying himself with himself, he makes very
trying work of the rest of us. A man who has not learned to say "I" and
mean something very real by it, has it not in his power, without dulness
or impertinence, to say "you" to any living creature. If a man has not
learned to say "you," if he has not taken hold of himself, interpreted
and adjusted himself to those who are face to face with him, the wider
and more general privilege of saying "they," of judging any part of
mankind or any temperament in it, should be kept away from him. It is
only as one has experienced a temperament, has in some mood of one's
life said "I" in that temperament, that one has the outfit for passing
an opinion on it, or the outfit for living with it, or for being in the
same world with it.

There are times, it must be confessed, when Christ's command, that every
man shall love his neighbour as himself, seems inconsiderate. There are
some of us who cannot help feeling, when we see a man coming along
toward us proposing to love us a little while the way he loves himself,
that our permission might have been asked. If there is one inconvenience
rather than another in our modern Christian society, it is the general
unprotected sense one has in it, the number of people there are about in
it (let loose by Sunday-school teachers and others) who are allowed to
go around loving other people the way they love themselves. A codicil or
at least an explanatory footnote to the Golden Rule, in the general
interest of neighbours, would be widely appreciated. How shall a man
dare to love his neighbour as himself, until he loves himself, has a
self that he really loves, a self he can really love, and loves it?
There is no more sad or constant spectacle that this modern world has to
face than the spectacle of the man who has overlooked himself, bustling
about in it, trying to give honour to other people,--the man who has
never been able to help himself, hurrying anxious to and fro as if he
could help some one else.

It is not too much to say "Charity begins at home." Everything does. The
one person who has the necessary training for being an altruist is the
alert egoist who does not know he is an altruist. His service to society
is a more intense and comprehensive selfishness. He would be cutting
acquaintance with himself not to render it. When he says "I" he means
"we," and the second and third persons are grown dim to him.

An absolutely perfect virtue is the conveying of a man's self, with a
truth, to others. The virtues that do not convey anything are cheap and
common enough. Favours can be had almost any day from anybody, if one is
not too particular, and so can blank staring self-sacrifices. One feels
like putting up a sign over the door of one's life, with some people:
"Let no man do me a favour except he do it as a self-indulgence." Even
kindness wears out, shows through, becomes impertinent, if it is not a
part of selfishness. It may be that there are certain rudimentary
virtues the outer form of which had better be maintained in the world,
whether they can be maintained spiritually--that is, thoroughly and
egotistically, or not. If my enemy who lives under the hill will
continue to not-murder me, I desire him to continue whether he enjoys
not-murdering me or not. But it is no credit to him. Except in some
baldly negative fashion as this, however, it is literally true that a
man's virtues are of little account to others except as they are of
account to him, and except he enjoys them as much as his vices. The
first really important shock that comes to a young man's religious
sentiment in this world is the number of bored-looking people around,
doing right. An absolutely substantial and perfect love is transfigured
selfishness. It is no mere playing with words to say this, nor is it
substituting a comfortable and pleasant doctrine for a strenuous
altruism. If it were as light and graceful an undertaking to have enough
selfishness to go around, to live in the whole of a universe like this,
as it is to slip out of even living in one's self in it, like a mere
shadow or altruist, egoism were superficial enough. As it is, egoism
being terribly or beautifully alive, so far as it goes, is now and
always has been, and always must be the running gear of the spiritual
world--egoism socialised. The first person is what the second and third
persons are made out of. Altruism, as opposed to egoism, except in a
temporary sense, is a contradiction in terms. Unless a man has a life to
identify other lives, with a self which is the symbol through which he
loves all other selves and all other experiences, he is selfish in the
true sense.

With all our Galileos, Agassizes, and Shakespeares, the universe has not
grown in its countless centuries. It has not been getting higher and
wider over us since the human race began. It is not a larger universe.
It is lived in by larger men, more all-absorbing, all-identifying, and
selfish men. It is a universe in which a human being is duly born, given
place with such a self as he happens to have, and he is expected to grow
up to it. Barring a certain amount of wear and tear and a few minor
rearrangements on the outside, it is the same universe that it was in
the beginning, and is now and always will be quite the same universe,
whether a man grows up to it or not. The larger universe is not one that
comes with the telescope. It comes with the larger self, the self that
by reaching farther and farther in, reaches farther and farther out. It
is as if the sky were a splendour that grew by night out of his own
heart, the tent of his love of God spreading its roof over the nature of
things. The greater distance knowledge reaches, the more it has to be
personal, because it has to be spiritual.

The one thing that it is necessary to do in any part of the world to
make any branch of knowledge or deed of mercy, a living and eager thing,
is to get men to see how direct its bearing is upon themselves. The man
who does not feel concerned when the Armenians are massacred, thousands
of miles away, because there is a sea between, is not a different man in
kind from the man who does feel concerned. The difference is one of
degree. It is a matter of area in living. The man who does feel
concerned has a larger self. He sees further, feels the cry as the cry
of his own children. He has learned the oneness and is touched with the
closeness, of the great family of the world.


V

The Autobiography of Beauty

But the brunt of the penalty of the unpopularity of the first person
singular in modern society falls upon the individual. The hard part of
it, for a man who has not the daily habit of being a companion to
himself, is his own personal private sense of emptiness--of missing
things. All the universe gets itself addressed to some one else--a great
showy heartless pantomime it rolls over him, beckoning with its nights
and days and winds and faces--always beckoning, but to some one else.
All that seems to be left to him in a universe is a kind of keeping up
appearances in it--a looking as if he lived--a hurrying, dishonest
trying to forget. He dare not sit down and think. He spends his strength
in racing with himself to get away from himself, and those greatest days
of all in human life--the days when men grow old, world-gentle, and
still and deep before their God, are the days he dreads the most. He can
only look forward to old age as the time when a man sits down with his
lie at last, and day after day and night after night faces infinite and
eternal loneliness in his own heart.

It is the man who cuts acquaintance with himself, who dares to be lonely
with himself, who dares the supreme daring in this world. He and his
loneliness are hermetically sealed up together in infinite Time,
infinite Space,--not a great man of all that have been, not a star or
flower, not even a great book that can get at him.

It is the nature of a great book that in proportion as it is beautiful
it makes itself helpless before a human soul. Like music or poetry or
painting it lays itself radiant and open before all that lies before
it--to everything or to nothing, whatever it may be. It makes the direct
appeal. Before the days and years of a man's life it stands. "Is not
this so?" it says. It never says less than this. It does not know how to
say more.

A bare and trivial book stops with what it says itself. A great book
depends now and forever upon what it makes a man say back, and if he
does not say anything, if he does not bring anything to it to say,
nothing out of his own observation, passion, experience, to be called
out by the passing words upon the page, the most living book, in its
board and paper prison, is a dead and helpless thing before a Dead Soul.
The helplessness of the Dead Soul lies upon it.

Perhaps there is no more important distinction between a great book and
a little book than this--that the great book is always a listener before
a human life, and the little book takes nothing for granted of a reader.
It does not expect anything of him. The littler it is, the less it
expects and the more it explains. Nothing that is really great and
living explains. Living is enough. If greatness does not explain by
being great, nothing smaller can explain it. God never explains. He
merely appeals to every man's first person singular. Religion is not
what He has told to men. It is what He has made men wonder about until
they have been determined to find out. The stars have never been
published with footnotes. The sun, with its huge, soft shining on
people, kept on with the shining even when the people thought it was
doing so trivial and undignified and provincial a thing as to spend its
whole time going around them, and around their little earth, that they
might have light on it perchance, and be kept warm. The moon has never
gone out of its way to prove that it is not made of green cheese. And
this present planet we are allowed the use of from year to year, which
was so little observed for thousands of generations that all the people
on it supposed it was flat, made no answer through the centuries. It
kept on burying them one by one, and waited--like a work of genius or a
masterpiece.

In proportion as a thing is beautiful, whether of man or God, it has
this heroic helplessness about it with the passing soul or generation of
souls. If people are foolish, it can but appeal from one dear, pitiful
fool to another until enough of us have died to make it time for a wise
man again. History is a series of crises like this, in which once in so
often men who say "I" have crossed the lives of mortals--have puzzled
the world enough to be remembered in it, like Socrates, or been abused
by it enough to make it love them forever, like Christ.

The greatest revelation of history is the patience of the beauty in it,
and truth can always be known by the fact that it is the only thing in
the wide world that can afford to wait. A true book does not go about
advertising itself, huckstering for souls, arranging its greatness small
enough. It waits. Sometimes for twenty years it waits for us, sometimes
for forty, sometimes sixty, and then when the time is fulfilled and we
come at length and lay before it the burden of the blind and blundering
years we have tried to live, it does little with us, after all, but to
bring these same years singing and crying and struggling back to us,
that through their shadowy doors we may enter at last the confessional
of the human heart, and cry out there, or stammer or whisper or sing
there, the prophecy of our own lives. Dead words out of dead
dictionaries the book brings to us. It is a great book because it is a
listening book, because it makes the unspoken to speak and the dead to
live in it. To the vanished pen and the yellowed paper of the man who
writes to us, thy soul and mine, Gentle Reader, shall call back, "This
is the truth."

If a book has force in it, whatever its literary form may be, or however
disguised, it is biography appealing to biography. If a book has great
force in it, it is autobiography appealing to autobiography. The great
book is always a confession--a moral adventure with its reader, an
incredible confidence.




The Fourth Interference: The Habit of Not Letting One's Self Go


I

The Country Boy in Literature

"Let not any Parliament Member," says Carlyle, "ask of the Present
Editor 'What is to be done?' Editors are not here to say, 'How.'"

"Which is both ungracious and tantalisingly elusive," suggests a
Professor of Literature, who has been recently criticising the
Nineteenth Century.

This criticism, as a part of an estimate of Thomas Carlyle, is not only
a criticism on itself and an autobiography besides, but it sums up, in a
more or less characteristic fashion perhaps, what might be called the
ultra-academic attitude in reading. The ultra-academic attitude may be
defined as the attitude of sitting down and being told things, and of
expecting all other persons to sit down and be told things, and of
judging all authors, principles, men, and methods accordingly.

If the universe were what in most libraries and clubs to-day it is made
to seem, a kind of infinite Institution of Learning, a Lecture Room on a
larger scale, and if all the men in it, instead of doing and singing in
it, had spent their days in delivering lectures to it, there would be
every reason, in a universe arranged for lectures, why we should exact
of those who give them, that they should make the truth plain to us--so
plain that there would be nothing left for us to do, with truth, but to
read it in the printed book, and then analyse the best analysis of
it--and die.

It seems to be quite generally true of those who have been the great
masters of literature, however, that in proportion as they have been
great they have proved to be as ungracious and as tantalisingly elusive
as the universe itself. They have refused, without exception, to bear
down on the word "how." They have almost never told men what to do, and
have confined themselves to saying something that would make them do it,
and make them find a way to do it. This something that they have said,
like the something that they have lived, has come to them they know not
how, and it has gone from them they know not how, sometimes not even
when. It has been incommunicable, incalculable, infinite, the
subconscious self of each of them, the voice beneath the voice, calling
down the corridors of the world.

If a boy from the country were to stand in a city street before the
window of a shop, gazing into it with open mouth, he would do more in
five or six minutes to measure the power and calibre of the passing men
and women than almost any device that could be arranged. Ninety-five out
of a hundred of them, probably, would smile a superior smile at him and
hurry on. Out of the remaining five, four would look again and pity him.
One, perhaps, would honour and envy him.

The boy who, in a day like the present one, is still vital enough to
forget how he looks in enjoying something, is not only a rare and
refreshing spectacle, but he is master of the most important
intellectual and moral superiority a boy can be master of, and if, in
spite of teachers and surroundings, he can keep this superiority long
enough, or until he comes to be a man, he shall be the kind of man whose
very faults shall be remembered better and cherished more by a doting
world than the virtues of the rest of us.

The most important fact--perhaps the only important fact--about James
Boswell--the country boy of literature--is that, whatever may have been
his limitations, he had the most important gift that life can give to a
man--the gift of forgetting himself in it. In the Fleet Street of
letters, smiling at him and jeering by him, who does not always see
James Boswell, completely lost to the street, gaping at the soul of
Samuel Johnson as if it were the show window of the world, as if to be
allowed to look at a soul like this were almost to have a soul one's
self?

Boswell's _Life of Johnson_ is a classic because James Boswell had the
classic power in him of unconsciousness. To book-labourers, college
employees, analysis-hands of whatever kind, his book is a standing
notice that the prerogative of being immortal is granted by men, even to
a fool, if he has the grace not to know it. For that matter, even if the
fool knows he is a fool, if he cares more about his subject than he
cares about not letting any one else know it, he is never forgotten. The
world cannot afford to leave such a fool out. Is it not a world in which
there is not a man living of us who does not cherish in his heart a
little secret like this of his own? We are bound to admit that the main
difference between James Boswell and the rest, consists in the fact that
James Boswell found something in the world so much more worth living
for, than not letting the common secret out, that he lived for it, and
like all the other great naives he will never get over living for it.

Even allowing that Boswell's consistent and unfailing motive in
cultivating Samuel Johnson was vanity, this very vanity of Boswell's has
more genius in it than Johnson's vocabulary, and the important and
inspiring fact remains, that James Boswell, a flagrantly commonplace man
in every single respect, by the law of letting himself go, has taken his
stand forever in English literature, as the one commonplace man in it
who has produced a work of genius. The main quality of a man of genius,
his power of sacrificing everything to his main purpose, belonged to
him. He was not only willing to seem the kind of fool he was, but he did
not hesitate to seem several kinds that he was not, to fulfil his main
purpose. That Samuel Johnson might be given the ponderous and gigantic
and looming look that a Samuel Johnson ought to have, Boswell painted
himself into his picture with more relentlessness than any other author
that can be called to mind, except three or four similarly commonplace
and similarly inspired and self-forgetful persons in the New Testament.
There has never been any other biography in England with the single
exception of Pepys, in which the author has so completely lost himself
in his subject. If the author of Johnson's life had written his book
with the inspiration of not being laughed at (which is the inspiration
that nine out of ten who love to laugh are likely to write with), James
Boswell would never have been heard of, and the burly figure of Samuel
Johnson would be a blur behind a dictionary.

It may be set down as one of the necessary principles of the reading
habit that no true and vital reading is possible except as the reader
possesses and employs the gift of letting himself go. It is a gift that
William Shakespeare and James Boswell and Elijah and Charles Lamb and a
great many other happy but unimportant people have had in common. No man
of genius--a man who puts his best and his most unconscious self into
his utterance--can be read or listened to or interpreted for one moment
without it. Except from those who bring to him the greeting of their own
unconscious selves, he hides himself. He gives himself only to those
with whom unconsciousness is a daily habit, with whom the joy of letting
one's self go is one of the great resources of life. This joy is back of
every great act and every deep appreciation in the world, and it is the
charm and delight of the smaller ones. On its higher levels, it is
called genius and inspiration. In religion it is called faith. It is the
primal energy both of art and religion.

Probably only the man who has very little would be able to tell what
faith is, as a basis of art or religion, but we have learned some things
that it is not. We know that faith is not a dead-lift of the brain, a
supreme effort either for God or for ourselves. It is the soul giving
itself up, finding itself, feeling itself drawn to its own, into
infinite space, face to face with strength. It is the supreme
swinging-free of the spirit, the becoming a part of the running-gear of
things. Faith is not an act of the imagination--to the man who knows it.
It is infinite fact, the infinite crowding of facts, the drawing of the
man-self upward and outward, where he is surrounded with the infinite
man-self. Perhaps a man can make himself not believe. He can not make
himself believe. He can only believe by letting himself go, by trusting
the force of gravity and the law of space around him. Faith is the
universe flowing silently, implacably, through his soul. He has given
himself up to it. In the tiniest, noisiest noon his spirit is flooded
with the stars. He is let out to the boundaries of heaven and the
night-sky bears him up in the heat of the day.

In the presence of a great work of art--a work of inspiration or faith,
there is no such thing as appreciation, without letting one's self go.


II

The Subconscious Self

The criticism of Carlyle's remark, "Editors are not here to say
'How,'"--that it is "ungracious and tantalisingly elusive," is a fair
illustration of the mood to which the habit of analysis leads its
victims. The explainer cannot let himself go. The puttering love of
explaining and the need of explaining dog his soul at every turn of
thought or thought of having a thought. He not only puts a microscope to
his eyes to know with, but his eyes have ingrown microscopes. The
microscope has become a part of his eyes. He cannot see anything without
putting it on a slide, and when his microscope will not focus it, and it
cannot be reduced and explained, he explains that it is not there.

The man of genius, on the other hand, with whom truth is an experience
instead of a specimen, has learned that the probabilities are that the
more impossible it is to explain a truth the more truth there is in it.
In so far as the truth is an experience to him, he is not looking for
slides. He will not mount it as a specimen and he is not interested in
seeing it explained or focussed. He lives with it in his own heart in so
far as he possesses it, and he looks at it with a telescope for that
greater part which he cannot possess. The microscope is perpetually
mislaid. He has the experience itself and the one thing he wants to do
with it is to convey it to others. He does this by giving himself up to
it. The truth having become a part of him by his thus giving himself up,
it becomes a part of his reader, by his reader's giving himself up.

Reading a work of genius is one man's unconsciousness greeting another
man's. No author of the higher class can possibly be read without this
mutual exchange of unconsciousness. He cannot be explained. He cannot
explain himself. And he cannot be enjoyed, appreciated, or criticised by
those who expect him to. Spiritual things are spiritually discerned,
that is, experienced things are discerned by experience. They are
"ungracious and tantalisingly elusive."

When the man who has a little talent tells a truth he tells the truth so
ill that he is obliged to tell how to do it. The artist, on the other
hand, having given himself up to the truth, almost always tells it as if
he were listening to it, as if he were being borne up by it, as by some
great delight, even while he speaks to us. It is the power of the
artist's truth when he writes like this that it shall haunt his reader
as it has haunted him. He lives with it and is haunted by it day after
day whether he wants to be or not, and when a human being is obliged to
live with a burning truth inside of him every day of his life, he will
find a how for it, he will find some way of saying it, of getting it
outside of him, of doing it, if only for the common and obvious reason
that it burns the heart out of a man who does not. If the truth is
really in a man--a truth to be done,--he finds out how to do it as a
matter of self-preservation.

The average man no doubt will continue now as always to consider
Carlyle's "Editors are not here to say 'How'" ungracious and
tantalisingly elusive. He demands of every writer not only that he shall
write the truth for every man but that he shall--practically--read it
for him--that is, tell him how to read it--the best part of reading it.
It is by this explaining the truth too much, by making it small enough
for small people that so many lies have been made out of it. The gist of
the matter seems to be that if the spirit of the truth does not inspire
a man to some more eager way of finding out how to do a truth than
asking some other man how to do it, it must be some other spirit. The
way out for the explotterating or weak man does not consist in the
scientist's or the commentator's how, or the artist's how, or in any
other strain of helping the ground to hold one up. It consists in the
power of letting one's self go.

To say nothing of appreciation of power, criticism of power is
impossible, without letting one's self go. Criticism which is not the
faithful remembering and reporting of an unconscious mood is not worthy
of being called criticism at all. A critic cannot find even the faults
of a book who does not let himself go in it, and there is not a man
living who can expect to write a criticism of a book until he has given
himself a chance to have an experience with it, to write his criticism
with. The larger part of the professional criticism of the ages that are
past has proved worthless to us, because the typical professional critic
has generally been a man who professes not to let himself go and who is
proud of it. If it were not for the occasional possibility of his being
stunned by a book--made unconscious by it,--the professional critic of
the lesser sort would never say anything of interest to us at all, and
even if he did, being a maimed and defective conscious person, the
evidence that he was stunned is likely to be of more significance than
anything he may say about the book that stunned him, or about the way he
felt when he was being stunned. Having had very little practice in being
unconscious, the bare fact is all that he can remember about it. The
unconsciousness of a person who has long lost the habit of
unconsciousness is apt to be a kind of groping stupor or deadness at its
best, and not, as with the artist, a state of being, a way of being
incalculably alive, and of letting in infinite life. It is a small joy
that is not unconscious. The man who knows he is reading when he has a
book in his hands, does not know very much about books.

People who always know what time it is, who always know exactly where
they are, and exactly how they look, have it not in their power to read
a great book. The book that comes to the reader as a great book is
always one that shares with him the infinite and the eternal in himself.

There is a time to know what time it is, and there is a time not to, and
there are many places small enough to know where they are. The book that
knows what time it is, in every sentence, will always be read by the
clock, but the great book, the book with infinite vistas in it, shall
not be read by men with a rim of time around it. The place of it is
unmeasured, and there is no sound that men can make which shall tick in
that place.


III

The Organic Principle of Inspiration

Letting one's self go is but a half-principle, however, to do one's
reading with. The other half consists in getting one's self together
again. In proportion as we truly appreciate what we read, we find
ourselves playing; at being Boswell to a book and being Johnson to it by
turns. The vital reader lets himself go and collects himself as the work
before him demands. There are some books, where it is necessary to let
one's self go from beginning to end. There are others where a man may
sit as he sits at a play, being himself between acts, or at proper
intervals when the author lets down the curtain, and being translated
the rest of the time.

Our richest moods are those in which, as we look back upon them, we seem
to have been impressing, impressionable, creative, and receptive at the
same time. The alternating currents of these moods are so swift that
they seem simultaneous, and the immeasurable swiftness with which they
pass from one to the other is the soul's instinctive method of kindling
itself--the very act of inspiration. Sometimes the subconscious self has
it all its own way with us except for a corner of dim, burning
consciousness keeping guard. Sometimes the conscious has it all its own
way with us and the subconscious self is crowded to the horizon's edge,
like Northern Lights still playing in the distance; but the result is
the same--the dim presence of one of these moods in the other, when
one's power is least effective, and the gradual alternating of the
currents of the moods as power grows more effective. In the higher
states of power, the moods are seen alternating with increasing heat and
swiftness until in the highest state of power of all, they are seen in
their mutual glow and splendour, working as one mood, creating miracles.

The orator and the listener, the writer and the reader, in proportion as
they become alive to one another, come into the same spirit--the spirit
of mutual listening and utterance. At the very best, and in the most
inspired mood, the reader reads as if he were a reader and writer both,
and the writer writes as if he were a writer and reader both.

While it is necessary in the use and development of power, that all
varieties and combinations of these moods should be familiar experiences
with the artist and with the reader of the artist, it remains as the
climax and ideal of all energy and beauty in the human soul that these
moods shall be found alternating very swiftly--to all appearances
together. The artist's command of this alternating current, the
swiftness with which he modulates these moods into one another, is the
measure of his power. The violinist who plays best is the one who sings
the most things together in his playing. He listens to his own bow, to
the heart of his audience, and to the soul of the composer all at once.
His instrument sings a singing that blends them together. The effect of
their being together is called art. The effect of their being together
is produced by the fact that they are together, that they are born and
living and dying together in the man himself while the strings are
singing to us. They are the spirit within the strings. His letting
himself go to them, his gathering himself out of them, his power to
receive and create at once, is the secret of the effect he produces. The
power to be receptive and creative by turns is only obtained by constant
and daily practice, and when the modulating of one of these moods into
the other becomes a swift and unconscious habit of life, what is called
"temperament" in an artist is attained at last and inspiration is a
daily occurrence. It is as hard for such a man to keep from being
inspired as it is for the rest of us to make ourselves inspired. He has
to go out of his way to avoid inspiration.

In proportion as this principle is recognised and allowed free play in
the habits that obtain amongst men who know books, their habits will be
inspired habits. Books will be read and lived in the same breath, and
books that have been lived will be written.

The most serious menace in the present epidemic of analysis in our
colleges is not that it is teaching men to analyse masterpieces until
they are dead to them, but that it is teaching men to analyse their own
lives until they are dead to themselves. When the process of education
is such that it narrows the area of unconscious thinking and feeling in
a man's life, it cuts him off from his kinship with the gods, from his
habit of being unconscious enough of what he has to enter into the joy
of what he has not.

The best that can be said of such an education is that it is a patient,
painstaking, laborious training in locking one's self up. It dooms a man
to himself, the smallest part of himself, and walls him out of the
universe. He comes to its doorways one by one. The shining of them falls
at first on him, as it falls on all of us. He sees the shining of them
and hastens to them. One by one they are shut in his face. His soul is
damned--is sentenced to perpetual consciousness of itself. What is there
that he can do next? Turning round and round inside himself, learning
how little worth while it is, there is but one fate left open to such a
man, a blind and desperate lunge into the roar of the life he cannot
see, for facts--the usual L.H.D., Ph.D. fate. If he piles around him the
huge hollow sounding outsides of things in the universe that have lived,
bones of soul, matter of bodies, skeletons of lives that men have lived,
who shall blame him? He wonders why they have lived, why any one lives;
and if, when he has wondered long enough why any one lives, we choose to
make him the teacher of the young, that the young also may wonder why
any one lives, why should we call him to account? He cannot but teach
what he has, what has been given him, and we have but ourselves to thank
that, as every radiant June comes round, diplomas for ennui are being
handed out--thousands of them--to specially favoured children through
all this broad and glorious land.




The Fifth Interference: The Habit of Analysis


I

If Shakespeare Came to Chicago

It is one of the supreme literary excellences of the Bible that, until
the other day almost, it had never occurred to any one that it is
literature at all. It has been read by men and women, and children and
priests and popes, and kings and slaves and the dying of all ages, and
it has come to them not as a book, but as if it were something happening
to them.

It has come to them as nights and mornings come, and sleep and death, as
one of the great, simple, infinite experiences of human life. It has
been the habit of the world to take the greatest works of art, like the
greatest works of God, in this simple and straightforward fashion, as
great experiences. If a masterpiece really is a masterpiece, and rains
and shines its instincts on us as masterpieces should, we do not think
whether it is literary or not, any more than we gaze on mountains and
stop to think how sublimely scientific, raptly geological, and logically
chemical they are. These things are true about mountains, and have their
place. But it is the nature of a mountain to insist upon its own
place--to be an experience first and to be as scientific and geological
and chemical as it pleases afterward. It is the nature of anything
powerful to be an experience first and to appeal to experience. When we
have time, or when the experience is over, a mountain or a masterpiece
can be analysed--the worst part of it; but we cannot make a masterpiece
by analysing it; and a mountain has never been appreciated by pounding
it into trap, quartz, and conglomerate; and it still holds good, as a
general principle, that making a man appreciate a mountain by pounding
it takes nearly as long as making the mountain, and is not nearly so
worth while.

Not many years ago, in one of our journals of the more literary sort,
there appeared a few directions from Chicago University to the late John
Keats on how to write an "Ode to a Nightingale." These directions were
from the Head of a Department, who, in a previous paper in the same
journal, had rewritten the "Ode to a Grecian Urn." The main point the
Head of the Department made, with regard to the nightingale, was that it
was not worth rewriting. "'The Ode to the Nightingale,'" says he,
"offers me no such temptation. There is almost nothing in it that
properly belongs to the subject treated. The faults of the Grecian Urn
are such as the poet himself, under wise criticism" (see catalogue of
Chicago University) "might easily have removed. The faults of the
Nightingale are such that they cannot be removed. They inhere in the
idea and structure." The Head of the Department dwells at length upon
"the hopeless fortune of the poem," expressing his regret that it can
never be retrieved. After duly analysing what he considers the poem's
leading thought, he regrets that a poet like John Keats should go so
far, apropos of a nightingale, as to sigh in his immortal stanzas, "for
something which, whatever it may be, is nothing short of a dead drunk."

One hears the soul of Keats from out its eternal Italy--

  "Is there no one near to help me
                          ... No fair dawn
  Of life from charitable voice? No sweet saying
  To set my dull and sadden'd spirit playing?"

The Head of the Department goes on, and the lines--

  Still wouldst thou sing and I have ears in vain--
  To thy high requiem become a sod--

are passed through analysis. "What the fitness is," he says, "or what
the poetic or other effectiveness of suggesting that the corpse of a
person who has ceased upon the midnight still has ears, only to add that
it has them in vain, I cannot pretend to understand"--one of a great
many other things that the Head of the Department does not pretend to
understand. It is probably with the same outfit of not pretending to
understand that--for the edification of the merely admiring mind--the
"Ode to a Grecian Urn" was rewritten. To Keats's lines--

  Oh, Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
    Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
  With forest branches and the trodden weed;
    Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
  As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
    When old age shall this generation waste,
  Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
    Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou sayest,
  "Beauty is truth, truth beauty"--that is all
  Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know--

he makes various corrections, offering as a substitute-conclusion to the
poet's song the following outburst:

  Preaching this wisdom with thy cheerful mien:
  Possessing beauty thou possessest all;
  Pause at that goal, nor farther push thy quest.

It would not be just to the present state of academic instruction in
literature to illustrate it by such an extreme instance as this of the
damage the educated mind--debauched with analysis--is capable of doing
to the reading habit. It is probable that a large proportion of the
teachers of literature in the United States, both out of their sense of
John Keats and out of respect to themselves, would have publicly
resented this astonishing exhibit of the extreme literary-academic mind
in a prominent journal, had they not suspected that its editor, having
discovered a literary-academic mind that could take itself as seriously
as this, had deliberately brought it out as a spectacle. It could do no
harm to Keats, certainly, or to any one else, and would afford an
infinite deal of amusement--the journal argued--to let a mind like this
clatter down a column to oblivion. So it did. It was taken by all
concerned, teachers, critics, and observers alike, as one of the more
interesting literary events of the season.

Unfortunately, however, entertainments of this kind have a very serious
side to them. It is one thing to smile at an individual when one knows
that standing where he does he stands by himself, and another to smile
at an individual when one knows that he is not standing by himself, that
he is a type, that there must be a great many others like him or he
would not be standing where he does at all. When a human being is seen
taking his stand over his own soul in public print, summing up its
emptiness there, and gloating over it, we are in the presence of a
disheartening fact. It can be covered up, however, and in what, on the
whole, is such a fine, true-ringing, hearty old world as this, it need
not be made much of; but when we find that a mind like this has been
placed at the head of a Department of Poetry in a great, representative
American university, the last thing that should be done with it is to
cover it up. The more people know where the analytical mind is
to-day--where it is getting to be--and the more they think what its
being there means, the better. The signs of the times, the destiny of
education, and the fate of literature are all involved in a fact like
this. The mere possibility of having the analysing-grinding mind engaged
in teaching a spontaneous art in a great educational institution would
be of great significance. The fact that it is actually there and that no
particular comment is excited by its being there, is significant. It
betrays not only what the general, national, academic attitude toward
literature is, but that that attitude has become habitual, that it is
taken for granted.

One would be inclined to suppose, looking at the matter abstractly, that
all students and teachers of literature would take it for granted that
the practice of making a dispassionate criticism of a passion would be a
dangerous practice for any vital and spontaneous nature--certainly the
last kind of practice that a student of the art of poetry (that is, the
art of literature, in the essential sense) would wish to make himself
master of. The first item in a critic's outfit for criticising a passion
is having one. The fact that this is not regarded as an axiom in our
current education in books is a very significant fact. It goes with
another significant fact--the assumption, in most courses of literature
as at present conducted, that a little man (that is, a man incapable of
a great passion), who is not even able to read a book with a great
passion in it, can somehow teach other people to read it.

It is not necessary to deny that analysis occasionally plays a valuable
part in bringing a pupil to a true method and knowledge of literature,
but unless the analysis is inspired nothing can be more dangerous to a
pupil under his thirtieth year, even for the shortest period of time, or
more likely to move him over to the farthest confines of the creative
life, or more certain, if continued long enough, to set him forever
outside all power or possibility of power, either in the art of
literature or in any of the other arts.

The first objection to the analysis of one of Shakespeare's plays as
ordinarily practised in courses of literature is that it is of doubtful
value to nine hundred and ninety-nine pupils in a thousand--if they do
it. The second is, that they cannot do it. The analysing of one of
Shakespeare's plays requires more of a commonplace pupil than
Shakespeare required of himself. The apology that is given for the
analysing method is, that the process of analysing a work of
Shakespeare's will show the pupil how Shakespeare did it, and that by
seeing how Shakespeare did it he will see how to do it himself.

In the first place, analysis will not show how Shakespeare did it, and
in the second place, if it does, it will show that he did not do it by
analysis. In the third place,--to say nothing of not doing it by
analysis,--if he had analysed it before he did it, he could not have
analysed it afterward in the literal and modern sense. In the fourth
place, even if Shakespeare were able to do his work by analysing it
before he did it, it does not follow that undergraduate students can.

A man of genius, with all his onset of natural passion, his natural
power of letting himself go, could doubtless do more analysing, both
before and after his work, than any one else without being damaged by
it. What shall be said of the folly of trying to teach men of talent,
and the mere pupils of men of talent, by analysis--by a method, that is,
which, even if it succeeds in doing what it tries to do, can only, at
the very best, reveal to the pupil the roots of his instincts before
they have come up? And why is it that our courses of literature may be
seen assuming to-day on every hand, almost without exception, that by
teaching men to analyse their own inspirations--the inspirations they
have--and teaching them to analyse the inspirations of other
men--inspirations they can never have--we are somehow teaching them
"English literature"?

It seems to have been overlooked while we are all analytically falling
at Shakespeare's feet, that Shakespeare did not become Shakespeare by
analytically falling at any one's feet--not even at his own--and that
the most important difference between being a Shakespeare and being an
analyser of Shakespeare is that with the man Shakespeare no submitting
of himself to the analysis-gymnast would ever have been possible, and
with the students of Shakespeare (as students go and if they are caught
young enough) the habit of analysis is not only a possibility but a
sleek, industrious, and complacent certainty.

After a little furtive looking backward perhaps, and a few tremblings
and doubts, they shall all be seen, almost to a man, offering their
souls to Moloch, as though the not having a soul and not missing it were
the one final and consummate triumph that literary culture could bring.
Flocks of them can be seen with the shining in their faces year after
year, term after term, almost anywhere on the civilised globe, doing
this very thing--doing it under the impression that they are learning
something, and not until the shining in their faces is gone will they be
under the impression that they have learned it (whatever it is) and that
they are educated.

The fact that the analytic mind is establishing itself, in a greater or
less degree, as the sentinel in college life of the entire creative
literature of the world is a fact with many meanings in it. It means not
only that there are a great many more minds like it in literature, but
that a great many other minds--nearly all college-educated minds--are
being made like it. It means that unless the danger is promptly faced
and acted upon the next generation of American citizens can neither
expect to be able to produce literature of its own nor to appreciate or
enjoy literature that has been produced. It means that another
eighteenth century is coming to the world; and, as the analysis is
deeper than before and more deadly-clever with the deeper things than
before, it is going to be the longest eighteenth century the world has
ever seen--generations with machines for hands and feet, machines for
minds, machines outside their minds to enjoy the machines inside their
minds with. Every man with his information-machine to be cultured with,
his religious machine to be good with, and his private Analysis Machine
to be beautiful with, shall take his place in the world--shall add his
soul to the Machine we make a world with. For every man that is born on
the earth one more joy shall be crowded out of it--one more analysis of
joy shall take its place, go round and round under the stars--dew, dawn,
and darkness--until it stops. How a sunrise is made and why a cloud is
artistic and how pines should be composed in a landscape, all men shall
know. We shall criticise the technique of thunderstorms. "And what is a
sunset after all?" The reflection of a large body on rarefied air.
Through analysed heaven and over analysed fields it trails its
joylessness around the earth.

Time was, when the setting of the sun was the playing of two worlds upon
a human being's life on the edge of the little day, the blending of
sense and spirit for him, earth and heaven, out in the still west. His
whole being went forth to it. He watched with it and prayed and sang
with it. In its presence his soul walked down to the stars. Out of the
joy of his life, the finite sorrow and the struggle of his life, he
gazed upon it. It was the portrait of his infinite self. Every setting
sun that came to him was a compact with Eternal Joy. The Night
itself--his figure faint before it in the flicker of the east--whispered
to him: "Thou also--hills and heavens around thee, hills and heavens
within thee--oh, Child of Time--Thou also art God!"

"Ah me! How I could love! My soul doth melt," cries Keats:

  Ye deaf and senseless minutes of the day,
  And thou old forest, hold ye this for true,
  There is no lightning, no authentic dew
  But in the eye of love; there's not a sound,
  Melodious howsoever, can confound
  The heavens and the earth to such a death
  As doth the voice of love; there's not a breath
  Will mingle kindly with the meadow air,
  Till it has panted round, and stolen a share
  Of passion from the heart.

John Keats and William Shakespeare wrote masterpieces because they had
passions, spiritual experiences, and the daily habit of inspiration. In
so far as these masterpieces are being truthfully taught, they are
taught by teachers who themselves know the passion of creation. They
teach John Keats and William Shakespeare by rousing the same passions
and experiences in the pupil that Keats and Shakespeare had, and by
daily appealing to them.


II

Analysis Analysed

There are a great many men in the world to-day, faithfully doing their
stint in it (they are commonly known as men of talent), who would have
been men of genius if they had dared. Education has made cowards of us
all, and the habit of examining the roots of one's instincts, before
they come up, is an incurable habit.

The essential principle in a true work of art is always the poem or the
song that is hidden in it. A work of art by a man of talent is generally
ranked by the fact that it is the work of a man who analyses a song
before he sings it. He puts down the words of the song first--writes it,
that is--in prose. Then he lumbers it over into poetry. Then he looks
around for some music for it. Then he practises at singing it, and then
he sings it. The man of genius, on the other hand, whether he be a great
one or a very little one, is known by the fact that he has a song sent
to him. He sings it. He has a habit of humming it over afterwards. His
humming it over afterwards is his analysis. It is the only possible
inspired analysis.

The difference between these two types of men is so great that anything
that the smaller of them has to say about the spirit or the processes of
the other is of little value. When one of them tries to teach the work
of the other, which is what almost always occurs,--the man of talent
being the typical professor of works of genius,--the result is fatal. A
singer who is so little capable of singing that he can give a prose
analysis of his own song while it is coming to him and before he sings
it, can hardly be expected to extemporise an inspired analysis of
another man's song after reading it. If a man cannot apply inspired
analysis to a little common passion in a song he has of his own, he is
placed in a hopeless position when he tries to give an inspired analysis
of a passion that only another man could have and that only a great man
would forget himself long enough to have.

An inspired analysis may be defined as the kind of analysis that the
real poet in his creatively critical mood is able to give to his work--a
low-singing or humming analysis in which all the elements of the song
are active and all the faculties and all the senses work on the subject
at once. The proportions and relations of a living thing are all kept
perfect in an inspired analysis, and the song is made perfect at last,
not by being taken apart, but by being made to pass its delight more
deeply and more slowly through the singer's utmost self to its
fulfilment.

What is ordinarily taught as analysis is very different from this. It
consists in the deliberate and triumphant separation of the faculties
from one another and from the thing they have produced--the dull, bare,
pitiless process of passing a living and beautiful thing before one
vacant, staring faculty at a time. This faculty, being left in the
stupor of being all by itself, sits in complacent judgment upon a work
of art, the very essence of the life and beauty of which is its
appealing to all of the faculties and senses at once, in their true
proportion, glowing them together into a unit--namely, several things
made into one thing, that is--several things occupying the same time and
the same place, that is--synthesis. An inspired analysis is the
rehearsal of a synthesis. An analysis is not inspired unless it comes as
a flash of light and a burst of music and a breath of fragrance all in
one. Such an analysis cannot be secured with painstaking and slowness,
unless the painstaking and slowness are the rehearsal of a synthesis,
and all the elements in it are laboured on and delighted in at once. It
must be a low-singing or humming analysis.

The expert student or teacher of poetry who makes "a dispassionate
criticism" of a passion, who makes it his special boast that he is able
to apply his intellect severely by itself to a great poem, boasts of the
devastation of the highest power a human being can attain. The commonest
man that lives, whatever his powers may be, if they are powers that act
together, can look down on a man whose powers cannot, as a mutilated
being. While it cannot be denied that a being who has been thus
especially mutilated is often possessed of a certain literary ability,
he belongs to the acrobats of literature rather than to literature
itself. The contortionist who separates himself from his hands and feet
for the delectation of audiences, the circus performer who makes a
battering-ram of his head and who glories in being shot out of a cannon
into space and amazement, goes through his motions with essentially the
same pride in his strength, and sustains the same relation to the
strength of the real man of the world.

Whatever a course of literary criticism may be, or its value may be, to
the pupils who take it, it consists, more often than not, on the part of
pupil and teacher both, in the dislocating of one faculty from all the
others, and the bearing it down hard on a work of art, as if what it was
made of, or how it was made, could only be seen by scratching it.

It is to be expected now and then, in the hurry of the outside world,
that a newspaper critic will be found writing a cerebellum criticism of
a work of the imagination; but the student of literature, in the
comparative quiet and leisure of the college atmosphere, who works in
the same separated spirit, who estimates a work by dislocating his
faculties on it, is infinitely more blameworthy; and the college teacher
who teaches a work of genius by causing it to file before one of his
faculties at a time, when all of them would not be enough,--who does
this in the presence of young persons and trains them to do it
themselves,--is a public menace. The attempt to master a masterpiece, as
it were, by reading it first with the sense of sight, and then with the
sense of smell, and with all the senses in turn, keeping them carefully
guarded from their habit of sensing things together, is not only a
self-destructive but a hopeless attempt. A great mind, even if it would
attempt to master anything in this way, would find it hopeless, and the
attempt to learn a great work of art--a great whole--by applying the
small parts of a small mind to it, one after the other, is more hopeless
still. It can be put down as a general principle that a human being who
is so little alive that he finds his main pleasure in life in taking
himself apart, can find little of value for others in a masterpiece--a
work of art which is so much alive that it cannot be taken apart, and
which is eternal because its secret is eternally its own. If the time
ever comes when it can be taken apart, it will be done only by a man who
could have put it together, who is more alive than the masterpiece is
alive. Until the masterpiece meets with a master who is more creative
than its first master was, the less the motions of analysis are gone
through with by those who are not masters, the better. A masterpiece
cannot be analysed by the cold and negative process of being taken
apart. It can only be analysed by being melted down. It can only be
melted down by a man who has creative heat in him to melt it down and
the daily habit of glowing with creative heat.

It is a matter of common observation that the fewer resources an artist
has, the more things there are in nature and in the nature of life which
he thinks are not beautiful. The making of an artist is his sense of
selection. If he is an artist of the smaller type, he selects beautiful
subjects--subjects with ready-made beauty in them. If he is an artist of
the larger type, he can hardly miss making almost any subject beautiful,
because he has so many beautiful things to put it with. He sees every
subject the way it is--that is, in relation to a great many other
subjects--the way God saw it, when He made it, and the way it is.

The essential difference between a small mood and a large one is that in
the small one we see each thing we look on, comparatively by itself, or
with reference to one or two relations to persons and events. In our
larger mood we see it less analytically. We see it as it is and as it
lives and as a god would see it, playing its meaning through the whole
created scheme into everything else.

The soul of beauty is synthesis. In the presence of a mountain the sound
of a hammer is as rich as a symphony. It is like the little word of a
great man, great in its great relations. When the spirit is waked and
the man within the man is listening to it, the sound of a hoof on a
lonely road in the great woods is the footstep of cities to him coming
through the trees, and the low, chocking sound of a cartwheel in the
still and radiant valley throngs his being like an opera. All sights and
echoes and thoughts and feelings revel in it. It is music for the smoke,
rapt and beautiful, rising from the chimneys at his feet. A sheet of
water--making heaven out of nothing--is beautiful to the dullest man,
because he cannot analyse it, could not--even if he would--contrive to
see it by itself. Skies come crowding on it. There is enough poetry in
the mere angle of a sinking sun to flood the prose of a continent with,
because the gentle earthlong shadows that follow it lay their fingers
upon all life and creep together innumerable separated things.

In the meadow where our birds are there is scarcely a tree in sight to
tangle the singing in. It is a meadow with miles of sunlight in it. It
seems like a kind of world-melody to walk in the height of noon
there--infinite grass, infinite sky, gusts of bobolinks' voices--it's as
if the air that drifted down made music of itself; and the song of all
the singing everywhere--the song the soul hears--comes on the slow
winds.

Half the delight of a bobolink is that he is more synthetic, more of a
poet, than other birds,--has a duet in his throat. He bursts from the
grass and sings in bursts--plays his own obligato while he goes. One can
never see him in his eager flurry, between his low heaven and his low
nest, without catching the lilt of inspiration. Like the true poet, he
suits the action to the word in a weary world, and does his flying and
singing together. The song that he throws around him, is the very spirit
of his wings--of all wings. More beauty is always the putting of more
things together. They were created to be together. The spirit of art is
the spirit that finds this out. Even the bobolink is cosmic, if he sings
with room enough; and when the heart wakes, the song of the cricket is
infinite. We hear it across stars.




The Sixth Interference: Literary Drill in College


I

Seeds and Blossoms

Four men stood before God at the end of The First Week, watching Him
whirl His little globe.[2] The first man said to Him, "Tell me how you
did it." The second man said, "Let me have it." The third man said,
"What is it for?" The fourth man said nothing, and fell down and
worshipped. Having worshipped he rose to his feet and made a world
himself.

    [2] Recently discovered manuscript.

These four men have been known in history as the Scientist, the Man of
Affairs, the Philosopher, and the Artist. They stand for the four
necessary points of view in reading books.

Most of the readers of the world are content to be partitioned off, and
having been duly set down for life in one or the other of these four
divisions of human nature they take sides from beginning to end with one
or the other of these four men. It is the distinction of the scholar of
the highest class in every period, that he declines to do this. In so
far as he finds each of the four men taking sides against each other, he
takes sides against each of them in behalf of all. He insists on being
able to absorb knowledge, to read and write in all four ways. If he is a
man of genius as well as a scholar, he insists on being able to read and
write, as a rule, in all four ways at once; if his genius is of the
lesser kind, in two or three ways at once. The eternal books are those
that stand this four-sided test. They are written from all of these
points of view. They have absorbed into themselves the four moods of
creation morning. It is thus that they bring the morning back to us.

The most important question in regard to books that our schools and
institutions of learning are obliged to face at present is, "How shall
we produce conditions that will enable the ordinary man to keep the
proportions that belong to a man, to absorb knowledge, to do his reading
and writing in all four ways at once?" In other words, How shall we
enable him to be a natural man, a man of genius as far as he goes?

A masterpiece is a book that can only be read by a man who is a master
in some degree of the things the book is master of. The man who has
mastered things the most is the man who can make those things. The man
who makes things is the artist. He has bowed down and worshipped and he
has arisen and stood before God and created before Him, and the spirit
of the Creator is in him. To take the artist's point of view, is to take
the point of view that absorbs and sums up the others. The supremacy and
comprehensiveness of this point of view is a matter of fact rather than
argument. The artist is the man who makes the things that Science and
Practical Affairs and Philosophy are merely about. The artist of the
higher order is more scientific than the scientist, more practical than
the man of affairs, and more philosophic than the philosopher, because
he combines what these men do about things, and what these men say about
things, into the things themselves, and makes the things live.

To combine these four moods at once in one's attitude toward an idea is
to take the artist's--that is, the creative--point of view toward it.
The only fundamental outfit a man can have for reading books in all four
ways at once is his ability to take the point of view of the man who
made the book in all four ways at once, and feel the way he felt when he
made it.

The organs that appreciate literature are the organs that made it. True
reading is latent writing. The more one feels like writing a book when
he reads it the more alive his reading is and the more alive the book
is.

The measure of culture is its originating and reproductive capacity, the
amount of seed and blossom there is in it, the amount it can afford to
throw away, and secure divine results. Unless the culture in books we
are taking such national pains to acquire in the present generation can
be said to have this pollen quality in it, unless it is contagious, can
be summed up in its pollen and transmitted, unless it is nothing more or
less than life itself made catching, unless, like all else that is
allowed to have rights in nature, it has powers also, has an almost
infinite power of self-multiplication, self-perpetuation, the more
cultured we are the more emasculated we are. The vegetables of the earth
and the flowers of the field--the very codfish of the sea become our
superiors. What is more to the point, in the minds and interests of all
living human beings, their culture crowds ours out.

Nature may be somewhat coarse and simple-minded and naive, but
reproduction is her main point and she never misses it. Her prejudice
against dead things is immutable. If a man objects to this prejudice
against dead things, his only way of making himself count is to die.
Nature uses such men over again, makes them into something more worth
while, something terribly or beautifully alive,--and goes on her way.

If this principle--namely, that the reproductive power of culture is the
measure of its value--were as fully introduced and recognised in the
world of books as it is in the world of commerce and in the natural
world, it would revolutionise from top to bottom, and from entrance
examination to diploma, the entire course of study, policy, and spirit
of most of our educational institutions. Allowing for exceptions in
every faculty--memorable to all of us who have been college
students,--it would require a new corps of teachers.

Entrance examinations for pupils and teachers alike would determine two
points. First, what does this person know about things? Second, what is
the condition of his organs--what can he do with them? If the privilege
of being a pupil in the standard college were conditioned strictly upon
the second of these questions--the condition of his organs--as well as
upon the first, fifty out of a hundred pupils, as prepared at present,
would fall short of admission. If the same test were applied for
admission to the faculty, ninety out of a hundred teachers would fall
short of admission. Having had analytic, self-destructive, learned
habits for a longer time than their pupils, the condition of their
organs is more hopeless.

The man who has the greatest joy in a symphony is:

First, the man who composes it.

Second, the conductor.

Third, the performers.

Fourth, those who might be composers of such music themselves.

Fifth, those in the audience who have been performers.

Sixth, those who are going to be.

Seventh, those who are composers of such music for other instruments.

Eighth, those who are composers of music in other arts--literature,
painting, sculpture, and architecture.

Ninth, those who are performers of music on other instruments.

Tenth, those who are performers of music in other arts.

Eleventh, those who are creators of music with their own lives.

Twelfth, those who perform and interpret in their own lives the music
they hear in other lives.

Thirteenth, those who create anything whatever and who love perfection
in it.

Fourteenth, "The Public."

Fifteenth, the Professional Critic--almost inevitably at the fifteenth
remove from the heart of things because he is the least creative, unless
he is a man of genius, or has pluck and talent enough to work his way
through the other fourteen moods and sum them up before he ventures to
criticise.

The principles that have been employed in putting life into literature
must be employed on drawing life out of it. These principles are the
creative principles--principles of joy. All influences in education,
family training, and a man's life that tend to overawe, crowd out, and
make impossible his own private, personal, daily habit of creative joy
are the enemies of books.


II

Private Road: Dangerous

The impotence of the study of literature as practised in the schools and
colleges of the present day turns largely on the fact that the principle
of creative joy--of knowing through creative joy--is overlooked. The
field of vision is the book and not the world. In the average course in
literature the field is not even the book. It is still farther from the
creative point of view. It is the book about the book.

It is written generally in the laborious unreadable, well-read
style--the book about the book. You are as one (when you are in the book
about the book) thrust into the shadow of the endless aisles of Other
Books--not that they are referred to baldly, or vulgarly, or in the
text. It is worse than this (for this could be skipped). But you are
surrounded helplessly. Invisible lexicons are on every page. Grammars
and rhetorics, piled up in paragraphs and between the lines thrust at
you everywhere. Hardly a chapter that does not convey its sense of
struggling faithfulness, of infinite forlorn and empty plodding--and all
for something a man might have known anyway. "I have toted a thousand
books," each chapter seems to say. "This one paragraph [page 1993--you
feel it in the paragraph] has had to have forty-seven books carried to
it." Not once, except in loopholes in his reading which come now and
then, does the face of the man's soul peep forth. One does not expect to
meet any one in the book about the book--not one's self, not even the
man who writes it, nor the man who writes the book that the book is
about. One is confronted with a mob.

Two things are apt to be true of students who study the great masters in
courses employing the book about the book. Even if the books about the
book are what they ought to be, the pupils of such courses find that (1)
studying the master, instead of the things he mastered, they lose all
power over the things he mastered; (2) they lose, consequently, not only
the power of creating masterpieces out of these things themselves, but
the power of enjoying those that have been created by others, of having
the daily experiences that make such joy possible. They are out of range
of experience. They are barricaded against life. Inasmuch as the
creators of literature, without a single exception, have been more
interested in life than in books, and have written books to help other
people to be more interested in life than in books, this is the gravest
possible defect. To be more interested in life than in books is the
first essential for creating a book or for understanding one.

The typical course of study now offered in literature carries on its
process of paralysis in various ways:

First. It undermines the imagination by giving it paper things instead
of real ones to work on.

Second. By seeing that these things are selected instead of letting the
imagination select its own things--the essence of having an imagination.

Third. By requiring of the student a rigorous and ceaselessly
unimaginative habit. The paralysis of the learned is forced upon him. He
finds little escape from the constant reading of books that have all the
imagination left out of them.

Fourth. By forcing the imagination to work so hard in its capacity of
pack-horse and memory that it has no power left to go anywhere of
itself.

Fifth. By overawing individual initiative, undermining personality in
the pupil, crowding great classics into him instead of attracting little
ones out of him. Attracting little classics out of a man is a thing that
great classics are always intended to do--the thing that they always
succeed in doing when left to themselves.

Sixth. The teacher of literature so-called, having succeeded in
destroying the personality of the pupil, puts himself in front of the
personality of the author.

Seventh. A teacher who destroys personality in a pupil is the wrong
personality to put in front of an author. If he were the right one, if
he had the spirit of the author, his being in front, now and then at
least, would be interpretation and inspiration. Not having the spirit of
the author, he is intimidated by him, or has all he can do not to be. A
classic cannot reveal itself to a groveller or to a critic. It is a book
that was written standing up and it can only be studied and taught by
those who stand up without knowing it. The decorous and beautiful
despising of one's self that the study of the classics has come to be as
conducted under unclassic teachers, is a fact that speaks for itself.

Eighth. Even if the personality of the teacher of literature is so
fortunate as not to be the wrong one, there is not enough of it. There
is hardly a course of literature that can be found in a college
catalogue at the present time that does not base itself on the dictum
that a great book can somehow--by some mysterious process--be taught by
a small person. The axiom that necessarily undermines all such courses
is obvious enough. A great book cannot be taught except by a teacher who
is literally living in a great spirit, the spirit the great book lived
in before it became a book,--a teacher who has the great book in
him--not over him,--who, if he took time for it, might be capable of
writing, in some sense at least, a great book himself. When the teacher
is a teacher of this kind, teaches the spirit of what he teaches--that
is, teaches the inside,--a classic can be taught.

Otherwise the best course in literature that can be devised is the one
that gives the masterpieces the most opportunity to teach themselves.
The object of a course in literature is best served in proportion as the
course is arranged and all associated studies are arranged in such a way
as to secure sensitive and contagious conditions for the pupil's mind in
the presence of the great masters, such conditions as give the pupil
time, freedom, space, and atmosphere--the things out of which a
masterpiece is written and with which alone it can be taught, or can
teach itself.

All that comes between a masterpiece and its thus teaching itself,
spreads ruin both ways. The masterpiece is partitioned off from the
pupil, guarded to be kept aloof from him--outside of him. The pupil is
locked up from himself--his possible self.

Not too much stress could possibly be laid upon intimacy with the great
books or on the constant habit of living on them. They are the movable
Olympus. All who create camp out between the heavens and the earth on
them and breathe and live and climb upon them. From their mighty sides
they look down on human life. But classics can only be taught by
classics. The creative paralysis of pupils who have drudged most deeply
in classical training--English or otherwise--is a fact that no observer
of college life can overlook. The guilt for this state of affairs must
be laid at the door of the classics or at the door of the teachers.
Either the classics are not worth teaching or they are not being taught
properly.

In either case the best way out of the difficulty would seem to be for
teachers to let the classics teach themselves, to furnish the students
with the atmosphere, the conditions, the points of view in life, which
will give the classics a chance to teach themselves.

This brings us to the important fact that teachers of literature do not
wish to create the atmosphere, the conditions, and points of view that
give the classics a chance to teach themselves. Creating the atmosphere
for a classic in the life of a student is harder than creating a
classic. The more obvious and practicable course is to teach the
classic--teach it one's self, whether there is atmosphere or not.

It is admitted that this is not the ideal way to do with college
students who suppose they are studying literature, but it is
contended--college students and college electives being what they
are--that there is nothing else to do. The situation sums itself up in
the attitude of self-defence. "It may be (as no one needs to point out),
that the teaching of literature, as at present conducted in college, is
a somewhat faithful and dogged farce, but whatever may be the faults of
modern college-teaching in literature, it is as good as our pupils
deserve." In other words, the teachers are not respecting their pupils.
It may be said to be the constitution and by-laws of the literature
class (as generally conducted) that the teachers cannot and must not
respect their pupils. They cannot afford to. It costs more than most
pupils are mentally worth, it is plausibly contended, to furnish
students in college with the conditions of life and the conditions in
their own minds that will give masterpieces a fair chance at them.
_Ergo_, inasmuch as the average pupil cannot be taught a classic he must
be choked with it.

The fact that the typical teacher of literature is more or less
grudgingly engaged in doing his work and conducting his classes under
the practical working theory that his pupils are not good enough for
him, suggests two important principles.

First. If his pupils are good enough for him, they are good enough to be
taught the best there is in him, and they must be taught this best there
is in him, as far as it goes, whether all of them are good enough for it
or not. There is as much learning in watching others being educated as
there is in appearing to be educated one's self.

Second. If his pupils are not good enough for him, the most literary
thing he can do with them is to make them good enough. If he is not a
sufficiently literary teacher to divine the central ganglion of interest
in a pupil, and play upon it and gather delight about it and make it
gather delight itself, the next most literary thing he can do is protect
both the books and the pupil by keeping them faithfully apart until they
are ready for one another.

If the teacher cannot recognise, arouse, and exercise such organs as his
pupil has, and carry them out into themselves, and free them in
self-activity, the pupil may be unfortunate in not having a better
teacher, but he is fortunate in having no better organs to be blundered
on.

The drawing out of a pupil's first faint but honest and lasting power of
really reading a book, of knowing what it is to be sensitive to a book,
does not produce a very literary-looking result, of course, and it is
hard to give the result an impressive or learned look in a catalogue,
and it is a difficult thing to do without considering each pupil as a
special human being by himself,--worthy of some attention on that
account,--but it is the one upright, worthy, and beautiful thing a
teacher can do. Any easier course he may choose to adopt in an
institution of learning (even when it is taken helplessly or
thoughtlessly as it generally is) is insincere and spectacular, a
despising not only of the pupil but of the college public and of one's
self.

If it is true that the right study of literature consists in exercising
and opening out the human mind instead of making it a place for cold
storage, it is not necessary to call attention to the essential
pretentiousness and shoddiness of the average college course in
literature. At its best--that is, if the pupils do not do the work, the
study of literature in college is a sorry spectacle enough--a kind of
huge girls' school with a chaperone taking its park walk. At its
worst--that is, when the pupils do do the work, it is a sight that would
break a Homer's heart. If it were not for a few inspired and
inconsistent teachers blessing particular schools and scholars here and
there, doing a little guilty, furtive teaching, whether or no,
discovering short-cuts, climbing fences, breaking through the fields,
and walking on the grass, the whole modern scheme of elaborate,
tireless, endless laboriousness would come to nothing, except the sight
of larger piles of paper in the world, perhaps, and rows of dreary,
dogged people with degrees lugging them back and forth in it,--one pile
of paper to another pile of paper, and a general sense that something is
being done.

In the meantime, human life around us, trudging along in its anger,
sorrow, or bliss, wonders what this thing is that is being done, and has
a vague and troubled respect for it; but it is to be noted that it buys
and reads the books (and that it has always bought and read the books)
of those who have not done it, and who are not doing it,--those who,
standing in the spectacle of the universe, have been sensitive to it,
have had a mighty love in it, or a mighty hate, or a true experience,
and who have laughed and cried with it through the hearts of their
brothers to the ends of the earth.


III

The Organs of Literature

The literary problem--the problem of possessing or appreciating or
teaching a literary style--resolves itself at last into a pure problem
of personality. A pupil is being trained in literature in proportion as
his spiritual and physical powers are being brought out by the teacher
and played upon until they permeate each other in all that he does and
in all that he is--in all phases of his life. Unless what a pupil is
glows to the finger tips of his words, he cannot write, and unless what
he is makes the words of other men glow when he reads, he cannot read.

In proportion as it is great, literature is addressed to all of a man's
body and to all of his soul. It matters nothing how much a man may know
about books, unless the pages of them play upon his senses while he
reads, he is not physically a cultivated man, a gentleman, or scholar
with his body. Unless books play upon all his spiritual and mental
sensibilities when he reads he cannot be considered a cultivated man, a
gentleman, and a scholar in his soul. It is the essence of all great
literature that it makes its direct appeal to sense-perceptions
permeated with spiritual suggestion. There is no such thing possible as
being a literary authority, a cultured or scholarly man, unless the
permeating of the sense-perceptions with spiritual suggestion is a daily
and unconscious habit of life. "Every man his own poet" is the
underlying assumption of every genuine work of art, and a work of art
cannot be taught to a pupil in any other way than by making this same
pupil a poet, by getting him to discover himself. Continued and
unfaltering disaster is all that can be expected of all methods of
literary training that do not recognise this.

To teach a pupil all that can be known about a great poem is to take the
poetry out of him, and to make the poem prose to him forever. A pupil
cannot even be taught great prose except by making a poet of him, in his
attitude toward it, and by so governing the conditions, excitements,
duties, and habits of his course of study that he will discover he is a
poet in spite of himself. The essence of Walter Pater's essays cannot be
taught to a pupil except by making a new creature of him in the presence
of the things the essays are about. Unless the conditions of a pupil's
course are so governed, in college or otherwise, as to insure and
develop the delicate and strong response of all his bodily senses, at
the time of his life when nature decrees that his senses must be
developed, that the spirit must be waked in them, or not at all, the
study of Walter Pater will be in vain.

The physical organisation, the mere bodily state of the pupil, necessary
to appreciate either the form or the substance of a bit of writing like
_The Child in the House_, is the first thing a true teacher is concerned
with. A college graduate whose nostrils have not been trained for
years,--steeped in the great, still delights of the ground,--who has not
learned the spirit and fragrance of the soil beneath his feet, is not a
sufficiently cultivated person to pronounce judgment either upon Walter
Pater's style or upon his definition of style.

To be educated in the great literatures of the world is to be trained in
the drawing out in one's own body and mind of the physical and mental
powers of those who write great literatures. Culture is the feeling of
the induced current--the thrill of the lives of the dead--the charging
the nerves of the body and powers of the spirit with the genius that has
walked the earth before us. In the borrowed glories of the great for one
swift and passing page we walk before heaven with them, breathe the long
breath of the centuries with them, know the joy of the gods and live.
The man of genius is the man who literally gives himself. He makes every
man a man of genius for the time being. He exchanges souls with us and
for one brief moment we are great, we are beautiful, we are immortal. We
are visited with our possible selves. Literature is the transfiguring of
the senses in which men are dwelling every day and of the thoughts of
the mind in which they are living every day. It is the commingling of
one's life in one vast network of sensibility, communion, and eternal
comradeship with all the joy and sorrow, taste, odor, and sound, passion
of men and love of women and worship of God, that ever has been on the
earth, since the watching of the first night above the earth, or since
the look of the first morning on it, when it was loved for the first
time by a human life.

The artist is recognised as an artist in proportion as the senses of his
body drift their glow and splendour over into the creations of his mind.
He is an artist because his flesh is informed with the spirit, because
in whatever he does he incarnates the spirit in the flesh.

The gentle, stroking delight in this universe that Dr. Holmes took all
his days, his contagious gladness in it and approval of it, his
impressionableness to its moods--its Oliver-Wendell ones,--who really
denies in his soul that this capacity of Dr. Holmes to enjoy, this
delicate, ceaseless tasting with sense and spirit of the essence of
life, was the very substance of his culture? The books that he wrote and
the things that he knew were merely the form of it. His power of
expression was the blending of sense and spirit in him, and because his
mind was trained into the texture of his body people delighted in his
words in form and spirit both.

There is no training in the art of expression or study of those who know
how to express, that shall not consist, not in a pupil's knowing wherein
the power of a book lies, but in his experiencing the power himself, in
his entering the life behind the book and the habit of life that made
writing such a book and reading it possible. This habit is the habit of
incarnation.

A true and classic book is always the history some human soul has had in
its tent of flesh, camped out beneath the stars, groping for the thing
they shine to us, trying to find a body for it. In the great wide plain
of wonder there they sing the wonder a little time to us, if we listen.
Then they pass on to it. Literature is but the faint echo tangled in
thousands of years, of this mighty, lonely singing of theirs, under the
Dome of Life, in the presence of the things that books are about. The
power to read a great book is the power to glory in these things, and to
use that glory every day to do one's living and reading with. Knowing
what is in the book may be called learning, but the test of culture
always is that it will not be content with knowledge unless it is inward
knowledge. Inward knowledge is the knowledge that comes to us from
behind the book, from living for weeks with the author until his habits
have become our habits, until God Himself, through days and nights and
deeds and dreams, has blended our souls together.


IV

Entrance Examinations in Joy

If entrance examinations in joy were required at our representative
colleges very few of the pupils who are prepared for college in the
ordinary way would be admitted. What is more serious than this, the
honour-pupils in the colleges themselves at commencement time--those who
have submitted most fully to the college requirements--would take a
lower stand in a final examination in joy, whether of sense or spirit,
than any others in the class. Their education has not consisted in the
acquiring of a state of being, a condition of organs, a capacity of
tasting life, of creating and sharing the joys and meanings in it. Their
learning has largely consisted in the fact that they have learned at
last to let their joys go. They have become the most satisfactory of
scholars, not because of their power of knowing, but because of their
willingness to be powerless in knowing. When they have been drilled to
know without joy, have become the day-labourers of learning, they are
given diplomas for cheerlessness, and are sent forth into the world as
teachers of the young. Almost any morning, in almost any town or city
beneath the sun, you can see them, Gentle Reader, with the children,
spreading their tired minds and their tired bodies over all the fresh
and buoyant knowledge of the earth. Knowledge that has not been throbbed
in cannot be throbbed out. The graduates of the colleges for women (in
The Association of Collegiate Alumnae) have seriously discussed the
question whether the college course in literature made them nearer or
farther from creating literature themselves. The Editor of _Harper's
Monthly_ has recorded that "the spontaneity and freedom of subjective
construction" in certain American authors was only made possible,
probably, by their having escaped an early academic training. The
_Century Magazine_ has been so struck with the fact that hardly a single
writer of original power before the public has been a regular college
graduate that it has offered special prizes and inducements for any form
of creative literature--poem, story, or essay--that a college graduate
could write.

If a teacher of literature desires to remove his subject from the
uncreative methods he finds in use around him, he can only do so
successfully by persuading trustees and college presidents that
literature is an art and that it can only be taught through the methods
and spirit and conditions that belong to art. If he succeeds in
persuading trustees and presidents, he will probably find that faculties
are not persuaded, and that, in the typical Germanised institution of
learning at least, any work he may choose to do in the spirit and method
of joy will be looked upon by the larger part of his fellow teachers as
superficial and pleasant. Those who do not feel that it is superficial
and pleasant, who grant that working for a state of being is the most
profound and worthy and strenuous work a teacher can do,--that it is
what education is for,--will feel that it is impracticable. It is thus
that it has come to pass in the average institution of learning, that if
a teacher does not know what education is, he regards education as
superficial, and if he does know what education is, he regards education
as impossible.

It is not intended to be dogmatic, but it may be worth while to state
from the pupil's point of view and from memory what kind of teacher a
college student who is really interested in literature would like to
have.

Given a teacher of literature who has _carte blanche_ from the other
teachers--the authorities around him--and from the trustees--the
authorities over him,--what kind of a stand will he find it best to
take, if he proposes to give his pupils an actual knowledge of
literature?

In the first place, he will stand on the general principle that if a
pupil is to have an actual knowledge of literature as literature, he
must experience literature as an art.

In the second place, if he is to teach literature to his pupils as an
art to be mastered, he will begin his teaching as a master. Instead of
his pupils determining that they will elect him, he will elect them. If
there is to be any candidating, he will see that the candidating is
properly placed; that the privilege at least of the first-class music
master, dancing master, and teacher of painting--the choosing of his own
pupils--is accorded to him. Inasmuch as the power and value of his class
must always depend upon him, he will not allow either the size or the
character of his classes to be determined by a catalogue, or by the
examinations of other persons, or by the advertising facilities of the
college. If actual results are to be achieved in his pupils, it can only
be by his governing the conditions of their work and by keeping these
conditions at all times in his own hands.

In the third place, he will see that his class is so conducted that out
of a hundred who desire to belong to it the best ten only will be able
to.

In the fourth place, he will himself not only determine which are the
best ten, but he will make this determination on the one basis possible
for a teacher of art--the basis of mutual attraction among the pupils.
He will take his stand on the spiritual principle that if classes are to
be vital classes, it is not enough that the pupils should elect the
teacher, but the teacher and pupils must elect each other. The basis of
an art is the mutual attraction that exists between things that belong
together. The basis for transmitting an art to other persons is the
natural attraction that exists between persons that belong together. The
more mutual the attraction is,--complementary or otherwise,--the more
condensed and powerful teaching can it be made the conductor of. If a
hundred candidates offer themselves, fifty will be rejected because the
attraction is not mutual enough to insure swift and permanent results.
Out of fifty, forty will be rejected probably for the sake of ten with
whom the mutual attraction is so great that great things cannot help
being accomplished by it.

The thorough and contagious teacher of literature will hold his
power--the power of conveying the current and mood of art to others--as
a public trust. He owes it to the institution in which he is placed to
refuse to surround himself with non-conductors; and inasmuch as his
power--such as it is--is instinctive power, it will be placed where it
instinctively counts the most. In proportion as he loves his art and
loves his kind and desires to get them on speaking terms with each
other, he will devote himself to selected pupils, to those with whom he
will throw the least away. His service to others will be to give to
these such real, inspired, and reproductive knowledge, that it shall
pass on from them to others of its own inherent energy. From the
narrower--that is, the less spiritual--point of view, it has seemed
perhaps a selfish and aristocratic thing for a teacher to make
distinctions in persons in the conduct of his work, but from the point
of view of the progress of the world, it is heartless and sentimental to
do otherwise; and without exception all of the most successful teachers
in all of the arts have been successful quite as much through a kind of
dictatorial insight in selecting the pupils they could teach, as in
selecting the things they could teach them.

In the fifth place, having determined to choose his pupils himself, the
selection will be determined by processes of his own choosing. These
processes, whatever form or lack of form they may take, will serve to
convey to the teacher the main knowledge he desires. They will be an
examination in the capacity of joy in the pupil. Inasmuch as surplus joy
in a pupil is the most promising thing he can have, the sole secret of
any ability he may ever attain of learning literature, the basis of all
discipline, it will be the first thing the teacher takes into account.
While it is obvious that an examination in joy could not be conducted in
any set fashion, every great joy in the world has its natural diviners
and experts, and teachers of literature who know its joy have plenty of
ways of divining this joy in others.

In the sixth place, pupils will be dropped and promoted by a teacher, in
such a class as has been described, according to the spirit and force
and creativeness of their daily work. Promotion will be by
elimination--that is, the pupil will stay where he is and the class will
be made smaller for him. The superior natural force of each pupil will
have full sway in determining his share of the teacher's force. As this
force belongs most to those who waste it least, if five tenths of the
appreciation in a class belongs to one pupil, five tenths of the teacher
belongs to him, and promotion is most truly effected, not by giving the
best pupils a new teacher, but by giving them more of the old one. A
teacher's work can only be successful in proportion as it is accurately
individual and puts each pupil in the place he was made to fit.

In the seventh place, the select class will be selected by the teacher
as a baseball captain selects his team: not as being the nine best men,
but as being the nine men who most call each other out, and make the
best play together. If the teacher selects his class wisely, the
principle of his selection sometimes--from the outside, at least--will
seem no principle at all. The class must have its fool, for instance,
and pupils must be selected for useful defects as well as for virtues.
Belonging to such a class will not be allowed to have a stiff, definite,
water-metre meaning in it, with regard to the capacity of a pupil. It
will only be known that he is placed in the class for some quality,
fault, or inspiration in him that can be brought to bear on the state of
being in the class in such a way as to produce results, not only for
himself but for all concerned.


V

Natural Selection in Theory

The conditions just stated as necessary for the vital teaching of
literature narrow themselves down, for the most part, to the very simple
and common principle of life and art, the principle of natural
selection.

As an item in current philosophy the principle of natural selection
meets with general acceptance. It is one of those pleasant and
instructive doctrines which, when applied to existing institutions, is
opposed at once as a sensational, visionary, and revolutionary doctrine.

There are two most powerful objections to the doctrine of natural
selection in education. One of these is the scholastic objection and the
other is the religious one.

The scholastic objection is that natural selection in education is
impracticable. It cannot be made to operate mechanically, or for large
numbers, and it interferes with nearly all of the educational machinery
for hammering heads in rows, which we have at command at present. Even
if the machinery could be stopped and natural selection could be given
the place that belongs to it, all success in acting on it would call for
hand-made teachers; and hand-made teachers are not being produced when
we have nothing but machines to produce them with. The scholastic
objection--that natural selection in education is impracticable under
existing conditions--is obviously well taken. As it cannot be answered,
it had best be taken, perhaps, as a recommendation.

The religious objection to natural selection in education is not that it
is impracticable, but that it is wicked. It rests its case on the
defence of the weak.

But the question at issue is not whether the weak shall be served and
defended or whether they shall not. We all would serve and defend the
weak. If a teacher feels that he can serve his inferior pupils best by
making his superior pupils inferior too, it is probable that he had
better do it, and that he will know how to do it, and that he will know
how to do it better than any one else. There are many teachers, however,
who have the instinctive belief, and who act on it so far as they are
allowed to, that to take the stand that the inferior pupil must be
defended at the expense of the superior pupil is to take a sentimental
stand. It is not a stand in favour of the inferior pupil, but against
him.

The best way to respect an inferior pupil is to keep him in place. The
more he is kept in place, the more his powers will be called upon. If he
is in the place above him, he may see much that he would not see
otherwise, much at which he will wonder, perhaps; but he deserves to be
treated spiritually and thoroughly, to be kept where he will be
creative, where his wondering will be to the point, both at once and
eventually.

It is a law that holds as good in the life of a teacher of literature as
it does in the lives of makers of literature. From the point of view of
the world at large, the author who can do anything else has no right to
write for the average man. There are plenty of people who cannot help
writing for him. Let them do it. It is their right and the world's right
that they should be the ones to do it. It is the place that belongs to
them, and why should nearly every man we have of the more seeing kind
to-day deliberately compete with men who cannot compete with him? The
man who abandons the life that belongs to him,--the life that would not
exist in the world if he did not live it and keep it existing in the
world, and who does it to help his inferiors, does not help his
inferiors. He becomes their rival. He crowds them out of their lives.
There could not possibly be a more noble, or more exact and spiritual
law of progress than this--that every man should take his place in human
society and do his work in it with his nearest spiritual neighbours.
These nearest spiritual neighbours are a part of the economy of the
universe. They are now and always have been the natural conductors over
the face of the earth of all actual power in it. It has been through the
grouping of the nearest spiritual neighbours around the world that men
have unfailingly found the heaven-appointed, world-remoulding teachers
of every age.

It does not sound very much like Thomas Jefferson,--and it is to be
admitted that there are certain lines in our first great national
document which, read on the run at least, may seem to deny it,--but the
living spirit of Thomas Jefferson does not teach that amputation is
progress, nor does true Democracy admit either the patriotism or the
religion of a man who feels that his legs must be cut off to run to the
assistance of neighbours whose legs are cut off. An educational
Democracy which expects a pupil to be less than himself for the benefit
of other pupils is a mock Democracy, and it is the very essence of a
Democracy of the truer kind that it expects every man in it to be more
than himself. And if a man's religion is of the truer kind, it will not
be heard telling him that he owes it to God and the Average Man to be
less than himself.


VI

Natural Selection in Practice

It is not going to be possible very much longer to take it for granted
that natural selection is a somewhat absent-minded and heathen habit
that God has fallen into in the natural world, and uses in his dealings
with men, but that it is not a good enough law for men to use in their
dealings with one another.

The main thing that science has done in the last fifty years, in spite
of conventional religion and so-called scholarship, has been to bring to
pass in men a respect for the natural world. The next thing that is to
be brought to pass--also in spite of conventional religion and so-called
scholarship--is the self-respect of the natural man and of the instincts
of human nature. The self-respect of the natural man, when once he gains
it, is a thing that is bound to take care of itself, and take care of
the man, and take care of everything that is important to the man.

Inasmuch as, in the long run at least, education, even in times of its
not being human, interests humanity more than anything else, a most
important consequence of the self-respect of the natural man is going to
be an uprising, all over the world, of teachers who believe something.
The most important consequence of having teachers who believe something
will be a wholesale and uncompromising rearrangement of nearly all our
systems and methods of education. Instead of being arranged to cow the
teacher with routine, to keep teachers from being human beings, and to
keep their pupils from finding it out if they are human beings, they
will be arranged on the principle that the whole object of knowledge is
the being of a human being, and the only way to know anything worth
knowing in the world is to begin by knowing how to be a human being--and
by liking it.

Not until our current education is based throughout on expecting great
things of human nature instead of secretly despising it, can it truly be
called education. Expectancy is the very essence of education. Actions
not only speak louder than words, they make words as though they were
not; and so long as our teachers confine themselves to saying beautiful
and literary things about the instincts of the human heart, and do not
trust their own instincts in their daily teaching, and the instincts of
their pupils, and do not make this trust the foundation of all their
work, the more they educate the more they destroy. The destruction is
both ways, and whatever the subjects are they may choose to know, murder
and suicide are the branches they teach.

The chief characteristic of the teacher of the future is going to be
that he will dare to believe in himself, and that he will divine some
one thing to believe in, in everybody else, and that, trusting the laws
of human nature, he will go to work on this some one thing, and work out
from it to everything. Inasmuch as the chief working principle of human
nature is the principle of natural selection, the entire method of the
teacher of the future will be based on his faith in natural selection.
All such teaching as he attempts to do will be worked out from the
temperamental, involuntary, primitive choices of his own being, both in
persons and in subject. His power with his classes will be his power of
divining the free and unconscious and primitive choices of individual
pupils in persons and subjects.

Half of the battle is already won. The principle of natural selection
between pupils and subjects is recognised in the elective system, but we
have barely commenced to conceive as yet the principle of natural
selection in its more important application--mutual attraction between
teacher and pupil--natural selection in its deeper and more powerful and
spiritual sense: the kind of natural selection that makes the teacher a
worker in wonder, and education the handiwork of God.

In most of our great institutions we do not believe in even the theory
of this deeper natural selection: and if we do believe in it, sitting in
endowed chairs under the Umbrella of Endowed Ideas, how can we act on
that belief? And if we do, who will come out and act with us? If it does
not seem best for even the single teacher, doing his teaching unattached
and quite by himself, to educate in the open,--to trust his own soul and
the souls of his pupils to the nature of things, how much less shall the
great institution, with its crowds of teachers and its rows of pupils
and its Vested Funds be expected to lay itself open--lay its teachers
and pupils and its Vested Funds open--to the nature of things? We are
suspicious of the nature of things. God has concealed a lie in them. We
do not believe. Therefore we cannot teach.

The conclusion is inevitable. As long as we believe in natural selection
between pupil and subject, but do not believe in natural selection
between pupil and teacher, no great results in education or in teaching
a vital relation to books or to anything else will be possible. As long
as natural selection between pupil and teacher is secretly regarded as
an irreligious and selfish instinct, with which a teacher must have
nothing to do, instead of a divine ordinance, a Heaven-appointed
starting-point for doing everything, the average routine teacher in the
conventional school and college will continue to be the kind of teacher
he is, and will continue to belong to what seems to many, at least, the
sentimental and superstitious and pessimistic profession he belongs to
now. Why should a teacher allow himself to teach without inspiration in
the one profession on the earth where, between the love of God and the
love of the opening faces, inspiration--one would say--could hardly be
missed? Certainly, if it was ever intended that artists should be in the
world it was intended that teachers should be artists. And why should we
be artisans? If we cannot be artists, if we are not allowed to make our
work a self-expression, were it not better to get one's living by the
labour of one's hands,--by digging in the wonder of the ground? A
stone-crusher, as long as one works one's will with it, makes it say
something, is nearer to nature than a college. "I would rather do manual
labour with my hands than manual labour with my soul," the true artist
is saying to-day, and a great many thousand teachers are saying it, and
thousands more who would like to teach. The moment that teaching ceases
to be a trade and becomes a profession again, these thousands are going
to crowd into it. Until the artist-teachers have been attracted to
teaching, things can only continue as they are. Young men and women who
are capable of teaching will continue to do all that they can not to get
into it; and young men and women who are capable of teaching, and who
are still trying to teach, will continue to do all that they can to get
out of it. When the schools of America have all been obliged, like the
city of Brooklyn, to advertise to secure even poor teachers, we shall
begin to see where we stand,--stop our machinery a while and look at it.

The only way out is the return to nature, and to faith in the freedom of
nature. Not until the teacher of the young has dared to return to
nature, has won the emancipation of his own instincts and the
emancipation of the instincts of his pupils, can we expect anything
better than we have now of either of them. Not until the modern teacher
has come to the point where he deliberately works with his instincts,
where he looks upon himself as an artist working in the subject that
attracts him most, and in the material that is attracted to him most,
can we expect to secure in our crowded conditions to-day enough teaching
to go around. The one practical and economical way to make our limited
supply of passion and thought cover the ground is to be spiritual and
spontaneous and thorough with what we have. The one practical and
economical way to do this is to leave things free, to let the natural
forces in men's lives find the places that belong to them, develop the
powers that belong to them, until power in every man's life shall be
contagious of power. In the meantime, having brought out the true and
vital energies of men as far as we go, if we are obliged to be
specialists in knowledge we shall be specialists of the larger sort. The
powers of each man, being actual and genuine powers, shall play into the
powers of other men. Each man that essays to live shall create for us a
splendour and beauty and strength he was made to create from the
beginning of the world.

To those who sit in the seat of the scornful the somewhat lyrical idea
of an examination in joy as a basis of admission to the typical college
appeals as a fit subject of laughter. So it is. Having admitted the
laugh, the question is,--all human life is questioning the college
to-day,--which way shall the laugh point?

If the conditions of the typical college do not allow for the working of
the laws of nature, so much the worse for the laws of nature, or so much
the worse for the college. In the meantime, it is good to record that
there are many signs--thanks to these same laws of nature--that a most
powerful reaction is setting in, not only in the colleges themselves,
but in all the forces of culture outside and around them. The
examination in joy--the test of natural selection--is already employed
by all celebrated music masters the world over in the choosing of
pupils, and by all capable teachers of painting; and the time is not far
off when, so far as courses in literature are concerned (if the teaching
of literature is attempted in crowded institutions), the examination in
joy will be the determining factor with all the best teachers, not only
in the conduct of their classes, but in the very structure of them.
Structure is the basis of conduct.


VII

The Emancipation of the Teacher

The custom of mowing lawns in cities, of having every grass-blade in
every door-yard like every other grass-blade, is considered by many
persons as an artificial custom--a violation of the law of nature. It is
contended that the free-swinging, wind-blown grasses of the fields are
more beautiful and that they give more various and infinite delight in
colour and line and movement. If a piece of this same field, however,
could be carefully cut out and moved and fitted to a city
door-yard--bobolinks and daisies and shadows and all, precisely as they
are--it would not be beautiful. Long grass conforms to a law of nature
where nature has room, and short grass conforms to a law of nature where
nature has not room.

When, for whatever reason, of whatever importance, men and women choose
to be so close together, that it is not fitting they should have
freedom, and when they choose to have so little room to live in that
development is not fitting lest it should inconvenience others, the
penalty follows. When grass-blades are crowded between walls and fences,
the more they can be made to look alike the more pleasing they are, and
when an acre of ground finds itself covered with a thousand people, or a
teacher of culture finds himself mobbed with pupils, the law of nature
is the same. Whenever crowding of any kind takes place, whether it be in
grass, ideas, or human nature, the most pleasing as well as the most
convenient and natural way of producing a beautiful effect is with the
Lawn Mower. The dead level is the logic of crowded conditions. The city
grades down its hills for the convenience of reducing its sewer problem.
It makes its streets into blocks for the convenience of knowing where
every home is, and how far it is, by a glance at a page, and, in order
that the human beings in it (one set of innumerable nobodies hurrying to
another set of innumerable nobodies) may never be made to turn out
perchance for an elm on a sidewalk, it cuts down centuries of trees, and
then, out of its modern improvements, its map of life, its woods in
rows, its wheels on tracks, and its souls in pigeonholes--out of its
huge Checker-board under the days and nights--it lifts its eyes to the
smoke in heaven, at last, and thanks God it is civilised!

The substantial fact in the case would seem to be that every human being
born into the world has a right to be treated as a special creation all
by himself. Society can only be said to be truly civilised in proportion
as it acts on this fact. It is because in the family each being is
treated as one out of six or seven, and in the school as one out of six
hundred, that the family (with approximately good parents) comes nearer
to being a model school than anything we have.

If we deliberately prefer to live in crowds for the larger part of our
lives, we must expect our lives to be cut and fitted accordingly. It is
an aesthetic as well as a practical law that this should be so. The law
of nature where there is room for a man to be a man is not the law of
nature where there is not room for him to be a man. If there is no
playground for his individual instincts except the street he must give
them up. Inasmuch as natural selection in overcrowded conditions means
selecting things by taking them away from others, it can be neither
beautiful nor useful to practise it.

People who prefer to be educated in masses must conform to the law of
mass, which is inertia, and to the law of the herd, which is the Dog. As
long as our prevailing idea of the best elective is the one with the
largest class, and the prevailing idea of culture is the degree from the
most crowded college, all natural gifts, whether in teachers or pupils,
are under a penalty. If we deliberately place ourselves where everything
is done by the gross, as a matter of course and in the nature of things
the machine-made man, taught by the machine-made teacher, in a
teaching-machine, will continue to be the typical scholar of the modern
world; and the gentleman-scholar--the man who made himself, or who gave
God a chance to make him--will continue to be what he is now in most of
our large teaching communities--an exception.

Culture which has not the power to win the emancipation of its teachers
does not produce emancipated and powerful pupils. The essence of culture
is selection, and the essence of selection is natural selection, and
teachers who have not been educated with natural selection cannot teach
with it. Teachers who have given up being individuals in the main
activity of their lives, who are not allowed to be individuals in their
teaching, do not train pupils to be individuals. Their pupils, instead
of being organic human beings, are manufactured ones. Literary drill in
college consists in drilling every man to be himself--in giving him the
freedom of himself. Probably it would be admitted by most of us who are
college graduates that the teachers who loom up in our lives are those
whom we remember as emancipated teachers--men who dared to be
individuals in their daily work, and who, every time they touched us,
helped us to be individuals.


VIII

The Test of Culture

Looking at our great institutions of learning in a general way, one
might be inclined to feel that literature cannot be taught in them,
because the classes are too large. When one considers, however, the
average class in literature, as it actually is, and the things that are
being taught in it, it becomes obvious that the larger such a class can
be made, and the less the pupil can be made to get out of it, the
better.

The best test of a man's knowledge of the Spanish language would be to
put him in a balloon and set him down in dark night in the middle of
Spain and leave him there with his Spanish words. The best test of a
man's knowledge of books is to see what he can do without them on a
desert island in the sea. When the ship's library over the blue horizon
dwindles at last in its cloud of smoke and he is left without a shred of
printed paper by him, the supreme opportunity of education will come to
him. He will learn how vital and beautiful, or boastful and empty, his
education is. If it is true education, the first step he takes he will
find a use for it. The first bird that floats from its tree-top shall be
a message from London straight to his soul. If he has truly known them,
the spirits of all his books will flock to him. If he has known
Shakespeare, the ghost of the great master will rise from beneath its
Stratford stone, and walk oceans to be with him. If he knows Homer,
Homer is full of Odysseys trooping across the seas. Shall he sit him
down on the rocks, lift his voice like a mere librarian, and, like a
book-raised, paper-pampered, ink-hungry babe cry to the surf for a Greek
dictionary? The rhythm of the beach is Greece to him, and the singing of
the great Greek voice is on the tops of waves around the world.

A man's culture is his knowledge become himself. It is in the seeing of
his eyes and the hearing of his ears and the use of his hands. Is there
not always the altar of the heavens and the earth? Laying down days and
nights of joy before it and of beauty and wonder and peace, the scholar
is always a scholar, _i. e._, he is always at home. To be cultured is to
be so splendidly wrought of body and soul as to get the most joy out of
the least and the fewest things. Wherever he happens to be,--whatever he
happens to be without,--his culture is his being master. He may be naked
before the universe, and it may be a pitiless universe or a gracious
one, but he is always master, knowing how to live in it, knowing how to
hunger and die in it, or, like Stevenson, smiling out of his poor, worn
body to it. He is the unconquerable man. Wherever he is in the world, he
cannot be old in the presence of the pageant of Life. From behind the
fading of his face lie watches it, child after child, spring after
spring as it flies before him; he will not grow old while it still
passes by. It carries delight across to him to the end. He watches and
sings with it to the end, down to the edge of sleep.

A bird's shadow is enough to be happy with, if a man is educated, or the
flicker of light on a leaf, and when really a song is being lived in a
man, all nature plays its accompaniment. To possess one's own senses, to
know how to conduct one's self, is to be the conductor of orchestras in
the clouds and in the grass. The trained man is not dependent on having
the thing itself. He borrows the boom of the sea to live with, anywhere,
and the gladness of continents.

Literary training consists in the acquiring of a state of mind and body
to feel the universe with; in becoming an athlete toward beauty, a giver
of great lifts of joy to this poor, straining, stumbling world with its
immemorial burden on its back, which, going round and round, for the
most part with its eyes shut, between infinities, is the hope and sorrow
of all of us for the very reason that its eyes are shut.


IX

Summary

The proper conditions for literary drill in college would seem to sum
themselves up in the general idea that literature is the spirit of life.
It can therefore only be taught through the spirit.

_First._ It can only be taught through the spirit by being taught as an
art, through its own nature and activity, reproductively--giving the
spirit body. Both the subject-matter and the method in true literary
drill can only be based on the study of human experience. The intense
study of human experience in a college course may be fairly said to
involve three things that must be daily made possible to the pupil in
college life. Everything that is given him to do, and everything that
happens to him in college, should cultivate these three things in the
pupil: (1) Personality--an intense first person singular, as a centre
for having experience; (2) Imagination--the natural organ in the human
soul for realising what an experience is and for combining and
condensing it; (3) The habit of having time and room, for
re-experiencing an experience at will in the imagination, until the
experience becomes so powerful and vivid, so fully realises itself in
the mind, that the owner of the mind is an artist with his mind. When he
puts the experience of his mind down it becomes more real to other men
on paper than their own experiences are to them in their own lives.

It is hardly necessary to point out that whatever our conventional
courses in literature may be doing, whether in college or anywhere else,
they are not bringing out this creative joy and habit of creative joy in
the pupils. Those who are interested in literature-courses--such as we
have--for the most part do not believe in trying to bring out the
creative joy of each pupil. Those who might believe in trying to do it
do not believe it can be done. They do not believe it can be done
because they do not realise that in the case of each and every pupil--so
far as he goes--it is the only thing worth doing. They fail to see from
behind their commentaries and from out of their footnotes, the fact that
the one object in studying literature is joy, that the one way of
studying and knowing literature is joy, and that the one way to attain
joy is to draw out creative joy.

_Second._ And if literature is to be taught as an art it must be taught
as a way of life. As long as literature and life continue to be
conceived and taught as being separate things, there can be no wide and
beautiful hope for either of them. The organs of literature are
precisely the same organs and they are trained on precisely the same
principles as the organs of life.

Except an education in books can bring to pass the right condition of
these organs, a state of being in the pupil, his knowledge of no matter
how long a list of masterpieces is but a catalogue of the names of
things for ever left out of his life. It is little wonder, when the
drudgery has done its work and the sorry show is over, and the victim of
the System is face to face with his empty soul at last, if in his
earlier years at least he seems overfond to some of us of receiving
medals, honours, and valedictories for what he might have been and of
flourishing a Degree for what he has missed.

  There was once a Master of Arts,
  Who was "nuts" upon cranberry tarts:
    When he'd eaten his fill
    He was awfully ill,
  But he was still a Master of Arts.

The power and habit of studying and enjoying human nature as it lives
around us, is not only a more human and alive occupation, but it is a
more literary one than becoming another editor of AEschylus or going down
to posterity in footnotes as one of the most prominent bores that
Shakespeare ever had. If a teacher of literature enjoys being the editor
of AEschylus, or if he is happier in appearing on a title-page with a
poet than he could possibly be in being a poet, it is personally well
enough, though it may be a disaster to the rest of us and to AEschylus.
Men who can be said as a class to care more about literature than they
do about life, who prefer the paper side of things to the real one, are
at liberty as private persons to be editors and footnote hunters to the
top of their bent; but why should they call it "The Study of
Literature," to teach their pupils to be footnote hunters and editors?
and how can they possibly teach anything else? and do they teach
anything else? And if good teachers can only teach what they have, what
shall we expect of poor ones?

In the meantime the Manufacture of the Cultured Mind is going ruthlessly
on, and thousands of young men and women who, left alone with the
masters of literature, might be engaged in accumulating and multiplying
inspiration, are engaged in analysing--dividing what inspiration they
have; and, in the one natural, creative period of their lives, their
time is entirely spent in learning how inspired work was done, or how it
might have been done, or how it should have been done; in absorbing
everything about it except its spirit--the power that did it--the power
that makes being told how to do it uncalled for, the power that asks and
answers its "Hows?" for itself. The serene powerlessness of it all,
without courage or passion or conviction, without self-discovery in it,
or self-forgetfulness or beauty in it, or for one moment the great
contagion of the great, is one of the saddest sights in this modern day.

In the meantime the most practical thing that can be done with the
matter of literary drill in college is to turn the eye of the public on
it. Methods will change when ideals change, and ideals will change when
the public clearly sees ideals, and when the public encourages colleges
that see them. The time is not far off when it will be admitted by all
concerned that the true study of masterpieces consists, and always must
consist, in communing with the things that masterpieces are about, in
the learning and applying of the principles of human nature, in a
passion for real persons, and in a daily loving of the face of the
universe.

This idea may not be considered very practical. It stands for a kind of
education in which it is difficult to exhibit in rows actual results. We
are not contending for an education that looks practical. We are
contending merely for education that will be true and beautiful and
natural. It will be practical the way the forces of nature are
practical--whether any one notices it or not.

The following announcement can already be seen on the bulletin boards of
universities around the world(--if looked for twice).

THEY ARE COMING! O Shades of Learning, THE LOVERS OF JOY, IMPERIOUS WITH
JOY, UNCONQUERABLE!

Their Sails are Flocking the East.

The High Seas are Theirs.

They shall command you, overwhelm you. Book-lubbers, paper-plodders,
shall be as though they were not. The youth of the earth shall be
renewed in the morning, the suns and the stars shall be unlocked, and
the evening shall go forth with joy. The mountains shall be freed from
the pick and the shovel and the book, and lift themselves to heaven.
Flowers shall again outblossom botanies, and gymnasts of music shall be
laid low, and Birds Through An Opera Glass shall sing. Joy shall come to
knowledge, and the strength of Joy upon it. THEY ARE COMING, O Ye Shades
of Learning, a thousand thousand strong. Their sails flock the Sea. The
smoke and the throb of their engines is the promise of the east. The
days of thirteen-thousand-ton, three-horse-power education are numbered.


X

A Note

It is one of the danger signs of the times that the men who have most
closely observed our modern life, in its social, industrial, artistic,
educational, and religious aspects seem to be gradually coming to the
point where they all but take it for granted in considering all social,
industrial, and educational and political questions, that the conditions
of modern times are such, and are going to be such that imagination and
personality might as well be dropped as practical forces--forces that
must be reckoned with in the movement of human life. Nearly all the
old-time outlooks of the Soul, as they stand in history, have been taken
for factory sites, bought up by syndicates, moral and otherwise, and are
being used for chimneys. Nothing but smoke and steel and wooden Things
come out of them. Poets and brokers are both telling us on every hand
that imagination is impossible and personality incredible in modern
life.

Imagination and personality are the spirit and the dust out of which all
great nations and all great religions are made.

The attempt has been made in the foregoing pages to point out that they
are not dead. The Altar smoulders.

In pointing out how imagination and personality can be wrought into one
single branch of a man's education--his relation to books--principles
may have been suggested which can be concretely applied by all of us,
each in our own department, to the education of the whole man.




The Seventh Interference: Libraries. Wanted: An Old-Fashioned Librarian


I

viz.

I never shall quite forget the time when the rumour was started in our
town that old Mr. M----, our librarian--a gentle, furtive, silent man--a
man who (with the single exception of a long white beard) was all
screwed up and bent around with learning, who was always slipping
invisibly in and out of his high shelves, and who looked as if his whole
life had been nothing but a kind of long, perpetual salaam to books--had
been caught dancing one day with his wife.

"Which only goes to show," broke in The M. P., "what a man of fixed
literary habits--mere book-habits--if he keeps on, is reduced to."

But as I was about to remark, for a good many weeks afterward--after the
rumour was started--one kept seeing people (I was one of them) as they
came into the library, looking shyly at Mr. M----, as if they were
looking at him all over again. They looked at him as if they had really
never quite noticed him before. He sat at his desk, quiet and busy, and
bent over, with his fine-pointed pen and his labels, as usual, and his
big leather-bound catalogue of the universe.

A few of us had had reason to suspect--at least we had had hopes--that
the pedantry in Mr. M---- was somewhat superimposed, that he had
possibilities, human and otherwise, but none of us, it must be
confessed, had been able to surmise quite accurately just where they
would break out. We were filled with a gentle spreading joy with the
very thought of it, a sense of having acquired a secret possession in a
librarian. The community at large, however, as it walked into its
library, looked at its Acre of Books, and then looked at its librarian;
felt cheated. It was shocked. The community had always been proud of its
books, proud of its Book Worm. It had always paid a big salary to it.
And the Worm had turned.

I have only been back to the old town twice since the day I left it, as
a boy--about this time. The first time I went he was there. I came
across him in his big, splendid new library, his face like some live,
but wrinkled old parchment, twinkling and human though--looking out from
its Dust Heap. "It seems to me," I thought, as I stood in the
doorway,--saw him edging around an alcove in The Syriac
Department,--"that if one must have a great dreary heaped-up pile of
books in a town--anyway--the spectacle of a man like this, flitting
around in it, doting on them, is what one ought to have to go with it."
He always seemed to me a kind of responsive every-way-at-once little
man, book-alive all through. One never missed it with him. He had the
literary nerves of ten dead nations tingling in him.

The next time I was in town they said he had resigned. They said he
lived in the little grey house around the corner from the great new
glaring stone library. No one ever saw him except in one of his long,
hesitating walks, or sometimes, perhaps, by the little study window,
pouring himself over into a book there. It was there that I saw him
myself that last morning--older and closer to the light turning
leaves--the same still, swift eagerness about him.

I stepped into the library next door and saw the new librarian--an
efficient person. He seemed to know what time it was while we stood and
chatted together. That is the main impression one had of him--that he
would always know what time it was. Put him anywhere. One felt it.


II

cf.

Our new librarian troubles me a good deal. I have not quite made out
why. Perhaps it is because he has a kind of chipper air with the books.
I am always coming across him in the shelves, but I do not seem to get
used to him. Of course I pull myself together, bow and say things, make
it a point to assume he is literary, go through the form of not letting
him know what I think as well as may be, but we do not get on.

And yet all the time down underneath I know perfectly well that there is
no real reason why I should find fault with him. The only thing that
seems to be the matter with him is that he keeps right on, every time I
see him, making me try to.

I have had occasion to notice that, as a general rule, when I find
myself finding fault with a man in this fashion--this vague, eager
fashion--the gist of it is that I merely want him to be some one else.
But in this case--well, he is some one else. He is almost anybody else.
He might be a head salesman in a department store, or a hotel clerk, or
a train dispatcher, or a broker, or a treasurer of something. There are
thousands of things he might be--ought to be--except our librarian. He
has an odd, displaced look behind the great desk. He looks as if he had
gotten in by mistake and was trying to make the most of it. He has a
business-like, worldly-minded, foreign air about him--a kind of
off-hand, pert, familiar way with books. He does not know how to bend
over--like a librarian--and when one comes on him in an alcove, the way
one ought to come on a librarian, with a great folio on his knees, he
is--well, there are those who think, that have seen it, that he is
positively comic. I followed him around only the other day for fifteen
or twenty minutes, from one alcove to another, and watched him taking
down books. He does not even know how to take down a book. He takes all
the books down alike--the same pleasant, dapper, capable manner, the
same peek and clap for all of them. He always seems to have the same
indefatigable unconsciousness about him, going up and down his long
aisles, no more idea of what he is about or of what the books are about;
everything about him seems disconnected with a library. I find I cannot
get myself to notice him as a librarian or comrade, or book-mind. He
does not seem to have noticed himself in this capacity--exactly. So far
as I can get at his mind at all, he seems to have decided that his mind
(any librarian's mind) is a kind of pneumatic-tube, or carrier
system--apparently--for shoving immortals at people. Any higher or more
thorough use for a mind, such as being a kind of spirit of the books for
people, making a kind of spiritual connection with them down underneath,
does not seem to have occurred to him.

Time was when librarians really had something to do with books. They
looked it. One could almost tell a librarian on the street--tell him at
sight, if he had been one long enough. One could feel a library in a man
somehow. It struck in. Librarians were allowed to be persons. It was
expected of them. They have not always been what so many of them are
now--mere couplings, conveniences, connecting-rods, literary-beltings.
They were identified--wrought in with books. They could not be unmixed.
They ate books; and, like the little green caterpillars that eat green
grass, the colour showed through. A sort of general brown, faded colour,
a little undusted around the edges, was the proper colour for
librarians.

It is true that people did not expect librarians to look quite human--at
least on the outside, sometimes, and doubtless the whole matter was
carried too far. But it does seem to me it is some comfort (if one has
to have a librarian in a library) to have one that goes with the
books--same colour, tone, feeling, spirit, and everything--the kind of
librarian that slips in and out among books without being noticed there,
one way or the other, like the overtone in a symphony.


III

et al.

But the trouble with our library is not merely the new librarian, who
permeates, penetrates, and ramifies the whole library within and
without, percolating efficiency into its farthest and loneliest alcoves.
Our new librarian has a corps of assistants. And even if you manage, by
slipping around a little, to get over to where a book is, alone, and get
settled down with it, there is always some one who is, has been, or will
be looking over your shoulder.

I dare say it's a defect of temperament--this having one's shoulder
looked over in libraries. Other people do not seem to be troubled much,
and I suppose I ought to admit, while I am about it, that having one's
shoulder looked over in a library does not in the least depend upon any
one's actually looking over it. That is merely a matter of form. It is a
little hard to express it. What one feels--at least in our library--is
that one is in a kind of side-looking place. One feels a kind of
literary detective system going silently on in and out all around one, a
polite, absent-minded-looking watchfulness.

Now I am not for one moment flattering myself that I can make my
fault-finding with our librarian's assistants amount to much--fill out a
blank with it.

No one can feel more strongly than I do my failure to put my finger on
the letter of our librarian's faults. I cannot even tell the difference
between the faults and the virtues of our librarian's assistants. Either
by doing the right thing with the wrong spirit, or the wrong thing with
the right spirit they do their faults and virtues all up together. Their
indefatigable unobtrusiveness, their kindly, faithful service I both
dread and appreciate. I have tried my utmost to notice and emphasise
every day the pleasant things about them, but I always get tangled up. I
have started out to think with approval, for instance, of the hush,--the
hush that clothes them as a garment,--but it has all ended in my merely
wondering where they got it and what they thought they were doing with
it. One would think that a hush--a hush of almost any kind--could hardly
help--but I have said enough. I do not want to seem censorious, but if
ever there was a visible, unctuous, tangible, actual thick silence, a
silence that can be proved, if ever there was a silence that stood up
and flourished and swung its hat, that silence is in our library. The
way our librarian's assistants go tiptoeing and reverberating around the
room--well--it's one of those things that follow a man always, follow
his inmost being all his life. It gets in with the books--after a few
years or so. One can feel the tiptoeing going on in a book--one of our
library books--when one gets home with it. It is the spirit of the
place. Everything that comes out of it is followed and tiptoed around by
our librarian's assistants' silence. They are followed about by it
themselves. The thick little blonde one, with the high yellow hair,
lives in our ward. One feels a kind of hush rimming her around, when one
meets her on the street.

Now I do not wish to claim that librarians' assistants can possibly be
blamed, in so many words, either for this, or for any of the other
things that seem to make them (in our library, at least) more prominent
than the books. Everything in a library seems to depend upon something
in it that cannot be put into words. It seems to be a kind of spirit. If
the spirit is the wrong spirit, not all the librarians in the world, not
even the books themselves can do anything about it.

       *       *       *       *       *

Postscript. I do hope that no one will suppose from this chapter that I
am finding fault or think I am finding fault with our assistant
librarians. I am merely finding fault with them (may Heaven forgive
them!) because I cannot. It doesn't seem to make very much
difference--their doing certain things or not doing them. They either do
them or they don't do them--whichever it is--with the same spirit. They
are not really down in their hearts true to the books. One can hardly
help feeling vaguely, persistently resentful over having them about
presiding over the past. One never catches them--at least I never
do--forgetting themselves. One never comes on one loving a book. They
seem to be servants,--most of them,--book chambermaids. They do not care
anything about a library as a library. They just seem to be going around
remembering rules in it.


IV

etc.

The P. G. S. of M. as good as said the other day, when I had been trying
as well as I could to express something of this kind, that the real
trouble with the modern library was not with the modern library, but
with me. He thought I tried to carry too many likes and dislikes around
with me, that I was too sensitive. He seemed to think that I should
learn to be callous in places of public resort.

I said I had no very violent dislikes to deal with. The only thing I
could think of that was the matter with me in a library was that I had a
passion for books. I didn't like climbing over a barricade of catalogues
to get to books. I hated to feel partitioned off from them, to stand and
watch rows of people marking things between me and books. I thought that
things had come to a pretty pass, if a man could not so much as touch
elbows with a poet nowadays--with Plato, for instance--without carrying
a redoubt of terrible beautiful young ladies. I said I thought a great
many other people felt the way I did. I admitted there were other sides
to it, but there were times, I said, when it almost seemed to me that
this spontaneous uprising in our country--this movement of the Book
Lovers, for instance--was simply a struggle on the part of the people to
get away from Mr. Carnegie's libraries. They are hemming literature and
human nature in, on every side, or they are going to unless Mr. Carnegie
can buy up occasional old-fashioned librarians--some other kind than are
turned out in steel works--to put into them. Libraries are getting to be
huge Separators. Books that have been put through libraries are
separated from themselves. They are depersonalised--the human nature all
taken off. And yet when one thinks of it, with nine people out of
ten--the best people and the worst both--the sense of having a personal
relation to a book, the sense of snuggling up with one's own little life
to a book, is what books are for.

"To a man," I said, "to whom books are people, and the livest kind of
people, brothers of his own flesh, cronies of his life, the whole
business of getting a book in a library is full of resentment and
rebellion. He finds his rights, or what he thinks are his rights, being
treated as privileges, his most sacred and confidential relations, his
relations with the great, meddled with by strangers--pleasant enough
strangers, but still strangers. Perhaps he wishes to see John Milton. He
goes down town to a great unhomelike-looking building, and slides in at
the door. He steps up to a wall, and asks permission to see John Milton.
He waits in a kind of vague, unsatisfied fashion, but he feels that
machinery is being set in motion. While it is being set in motion, he
sits down before the wall on one of the seats or pews where a large
audience of other comfortless and lonely-looking people are. He feels
the great, heartless building gathering itself together, going after
John Milton for him, while he sits and waits. One after the other he
hears human beings' names being called out in space, and one by one poor
scared-looking people who seem to be ashamed to go with their
names--most of them--step up before the audience. He sees a book being
swung out to them, watches them slink gratefully away, and finally his
own name echoing about among the Immortals, startles its way down to
him. Then he steps up to the wall again, and John Milton at last, as on
some huge transcendental derrick belonging to the city of ----, is swung
into his arms. He feels of the outside gropingly--takes it home. If he
can get John Milton to come to life again after all this, he communes
with him. In two weeks he takes him back. Then the derrick again."

The only kind of book that I ever feel close to, in the average library,
is a book on war. Even if I go in, in a gentle, harmless, happy, singing
sort of way, thinking I want a volume of pastoral poems, by the time I
get it, I wish it were something that could be loaded, or that would go
off. As for asking for a book and reading it in cold blood right in the
middle of such a place, it will always be beyond me. I have never found
a book I could do it with yet. However I struggle to follow the train of
thought in it, it's a fuse. I find myself breaking out, when I see all
these far-away-looking people coming up in rows to their faraway books.
"A library," I say to myself, "is a huge barbaric, mediaeval institution,
where behind stone and glass a man's dearest friends in the world, the
familiars of his life, lie helpless in their cells. It is the
Penitentiary of Immortals. There are certain visiting days when friends
and relatives are allowed to come, but it only--" At this point a gong
sounds and tells me to go home. "Are not books bone of a man's bone, and
flesh of his flesh? Oughtn't they to be? Shall a man ask permission to
see his wife? Why should I fill out a slip to a pretty girl, when I want
to be in Greece with Homer, or go to hell with Dante? Why should I write
on a piece of paper, 'I promise to return--infinity--by six o'clock'? A
library is a huge machine for keeping the letter with books and
violating their spirit. The fact that the machinery is filled with a
mirage of pleasant faces does not help. Pleasant faces make machinery
worse--if they are a part of it. They make one expect something better."

The P. G. S. of M. wished me to understand at this point that I was not
made right, that I was incapable, helpless in a library, that I did not
seem to know what to do unless I could have a simple, natural, or
country relation to books.

"It doesn't follow," he said, "because you are bashful in a library,
cannot get your mind to work there, with other people around, that the
other people oughtn't to be around. There are a great many ways of using
a library, and the more people there are crowded in with the books
there, other things being equal, the better. It's what a library is
for," he said, and a great deal more to the same effect.

I listened a while and told him that I supposed he was right. I supposed
I had naturally a kind of wild mind. I allowed that the more a library
in a general way took after a piece of woods, the more I enjoyed it. I
did not attempt to deny that a library was made for the people, but I
did think there ought to be places in libraries--all libraries--where
wild ones, like me, could go. There ought to be in every library some
uncultivated, uncatalogued, unlibrarianed tract where a man with a
skittish or country mind will have a chance, where a man who likes to be
alone with books--with books just as books--will be permitted to browze,
unnoticed, bars all down, and frisk with his mind and roll himself,
without turning over all of a sudden only to find a librarian's
assistant standing there wondering at him, looking down to the bottom of
his soul.

I am not in the least denying that librarians are well enough,--that is,
might be well enough,--but as things are going to-day, they all seem to
contribute, somehow, toward making a library a conscious and stilted
place. They hold one up to the surface of things, with books. They make
impossible to a man those freedoms of the spirit--those best times of
all in a library, when one feels free to find one's mood, when one gets
hold of one's divining-rod, opens down into a book, discovers a new,
unconscious, subterranean self there.

The P. G. S. of M. broke in at this point and said this was all
subjective folderol on my part--that I had better drop it--a kind of
habit I had gotten into lately, of splitting the hairs of my
emotions--or something to that effect. He went on at some length and
took the general ground before he was through, that absolutely
everything in modern libraries depended on the librarians. Librarians--I
should judge--in a modern library were what books were for. He said that
the more intelligent people were nowadays the more they enjoyed
librarians--knew how to use them--doted on them, etc., _ad infinitum_.

"The kind of people one sees at operas," I interrupted, "listening with
librettos, the kind of people who puff up mountains to see views and
extract geography from them, the people one meets in the fields,
nowadays, flower in one hand, botany in the other, the kind of people
who have to have charts to enjoy stars with--these are the people who
want librarians between them and their books. The more librarians they
can get standing in a row between them and a masterpiece the more they
feel they are appreciating it, the more card catalogues, gazetteers,
dictionaries, derricks, and other machinery they can have pulling and
hauling above their heads in a library the more literary they feel in
it. They feel culture--somehow--stirring around them. They are not
exactly sure what culture is, but they feel that a great deal of
it--whatever it is--is being poured over into them."

But I must begin to bring these wanderings about libraries to a close.
It can do no harm to remark, perhaps, that I am not maintaining--do not
wish to maintain (I could not if I dared) that the modern librarian with
all his faults is not useful at times. As a sort of pianola or aeolian
attachment for a library, as a mechanical contrivance for making a
comparatively ignorant man draw perfectly enormous harmonies out of it
(which he does not care anything about), a modern librarian helps. All
that I am maintaining is, that I am not this comparatively ignorant man.
I am another one. I am merely saying that the pianola way of dealing
with ignorance, in my own case, up to the present at least, does not
grow on me.


V

O

I suppose that the Boston Public Library would say--if it said
anything--that I had a mere Old Athenaeum kind of a mind. I am obliged to
confess that I dote on the Old Athenaeum. It protects one's optimism. One
is made to feel there--let right down in the midst of civilisation,
within a stone's throw of the State House--that it is barely possible to
keep civilisation off. One feels it rolling itself along, heaping itself
up out on Tremont Street and the Common (the very trees cannot live in
it), but one is out of reach. When one has to live in civilisation, as
most of us do, nearly all of one's time every day in the week, it means
a great deal. I can hardly say how much it means to me, in the daily
struggle with it, to be able to dodge behind the Athenaeum, to be able to
go in and sit down there, if only for a minute, to be behind glass, as
it were, to hear great, hungry Tremont Street chewing men up, hundreds
of trainloads at a time, into wood-pulp, smoothing them out into nobody
or everybody; it makes one feel, while it is not as it ought to be, as
if, after all, there might be some way out, as if some provision had
been made in this world, or might be made, for letting human beings live
on it.

The general sense of unsensitiveness in a modern library, of hurry and
rush and efficiency, above all, the kind of moral smugness one feels
there, the book-self-consciousness, the unprotected, public-street
feeling one has--all these things are very grave and important obstacles
which our great librarians, with their great systems--most of them--have
yet to reckon with. A little more mustiness, gentlemen, please, silence,
slowness, solitude with books, as if they were woods, unattainableness
(and oh, will any one understand it?), a little inconvenience, a little
old-fashioned, happy inconvenience; a chance to gloat and take pains and
love things with difficulties, a chance to go around the corners of one's
knowledge, to make modest discoveries all by one's self. It is no small
thing to go about a library having books happen to one, to feel one's
self sitting down with a book--one's own private Providence--turning the
pages of events.

One cannot help feeling that if a part of the money that is being spent
carnegieing nowadays, that is, in arranging for a great many books and a
great many people to pile up order among a great many books, could be
spent in providing hundreds of thousands of small libraries, or small
places in large ones, where men who would like to do it would feel safe
to creep in sometimes and open their souls--nobody looking--it would be
no more than fair.

       *       *       *       *       *

Postscript. One has to be so much of one's time helpless before a
librarian in this world, one has to put him on his honour as a gentleman
so much, to expose such vast, incredible tracts of ignorance to him,
that I know only too well that I, of all men, cannot afford, in these
pages or anywhere else, to say anything that will permanently offend
librarians. I do hope I have not. It is only through knowing so many
good ones that I know enough to criticise the rest. If I am right, it is
because I am their spokesman. If I am wrong, I am not a well-informed
person, and I do not count anywhere in particular on anything. The best
way, I suspect, for a librarian to deal with me is not to try to
classify me. I ought to be put out of the way on this subject, tucked
back into any general pigeon-hole of odds and ends of temperament. If I
had not felt that I could be cheerfully sorted out at the end of this
page, filed away by everybody,--almost anybody,--as not making very much
difference, I would not have spoken so freely. There is not a librarian
who has read as far as this, in this book, who, though he may have had
moments of being troubled in it, will not be able to dispose of me with
a kind of grateful, relieved certainty. However that may be, I can only
beg you, Oh, librarians, and all ye kindly learned ones, to be generous
with me, wherever you put me. I leave my poor, naked, shivering,
miscellaneous soul in your hands.




Book II

Possibilities


I

The Issue

I dreamed I lived in a day when men dared have visions. I lay in a great
white Silence as one who waited for something.

And as I lay and waited, the Silence groped toward me and I felt it
gathering nearer and nearer about me.

Then it folded me to Itself.

I made Time my bedside.

And it seemed to me, when I had rested my soul with years, and when I
had found Space and had stretched myself upon it, I awoke.

I lay in a great white empty place, and the whole world like solemn
music came to me.

And I looked, and behold in the shadow of the earth, which came and
went, I saw Human Lives being tossed about. On the solemn rhythmic
music, back and forth, I saw them lifted across Silence.

And I said to my Spirit, "What is it they are doing?"

"They are living," the Spirit said.

So they floated before me while The Great Shadow came and went.

       *       *       *       *       *

"O my Soul, hast thou forgotten thy days in the world, when thou didst
watch the processional of it, when the faces--day-lighted,
night-lighted, faces--trooped before thee, and thou didst look upon them
and delight in them? What didst thou see in the world?"

"I saw Two Immeasurable Hands in it," said my Soul, "over every man. I
saw that the man did not see the Hands. I saw that they reached out of
infinity for him down through the days and the nights. And whether he
slept or prayed or wrought, I saw that they still reached out for him,
and folded themselves about him."

And I asked God what The Hands were.

"The man calls them Heredity and Environment," God said.

And God laughed.

Words came from far for me and waited in tumult within me. But my mouth
was filled with silence.

       *       *       *       *       *

I know that I do not know the world, but out of my little corner of time
and space I have watched in it,--watched men and truths struggling in
it, and in the struggle it has seemed to me I have seen three kinds of
men. I have seen the man who feels that he is being made, and the man
who feels that he is making himself. But I have seen also another kind
of man--the man who feels that the Universe is at work on him, but
(within limits) under his own supervision.

I have made a compact in my soul with this man, for a new world. He is
not willing to be a mere manufactured man--one more being turned out
from The Factory of Circumstance--neither does he think very much of the
man who makes himself--who could make himself. If he were to try such a
thing--try to make a man himself, he would really rather try it, if the
truth must be told, on some one else.

As near as he can define it, life seems to be (to the normal or inspired
man) a kind of alternate grasping and being grasped. Sometimes he feels
his destiny tossed between the Two Immeasurable Hands. Sometimes he
feels that they have paused--that the Immeasurable Hands have been lent
to him, that the toss of destiny is made his own.

He watches these two great forces playing under heaven, before his eyes,
with his immortal life, every day. His soul takes these powers of
heaven, as the mariner takes the winds of the sea. He tacks to destiny.
He takes the same attitude toward the laws of heredity and environment
that the Creator took when He made them. He takes it for granted that a
God who made these laws as conveniences for Himself, in running a
Universe, must have intended them for men as conveniences in living in
it. In proportion as men have been like God they have treated these laws
as He does--as conveniences. Thousands of men are doing it to-day. Men
did it for thousands of years before they knew what the laws were, when
they merely followed their instincts with them. In a man's answer to the
question, How can I make a convenience of the law of heredity and
environment?--education before being born and education after being
born--will be found to lie always the secret glory or the secret shame
of his life.


II

The First Selection

If the souls of the unborn could go about reconnoitering the earth a
little before they settled on it, selecting the parents they would have,
the places where it pleased them to be born, nine out of ten of them
(judging from the way they conduct themselves in the flesh) would spend
nearly all their time in looking for the best house and street to be
born in, the best things to be born to. Such a little matter as
selecting the right parents would be left, probably, to the last moment,
or they would expect it to be thrown in.

We are all of us more or less aware, especially as we advance in life,
that overlooking the importance of parents is a mistake. There have been
times in the lives of some of us when having parents at all seemed a
mistake. We can remember hours when we were sure we had the wrong ones.
After our first disappointment,--that is, when we have learned how
unmanageable parents are,--we have our time--most of us--of making
comparisons, of trying other people's parents on. This cannot be said to
work very well, taken as a whole, and it is generally admitted that
people who are most serious about it, who take unto themselves fathers-
and mothers-in-law seldom do any better than at first. The conclusion of
the whole matter would seem to be: Since a man cannot select his parents
and his parents cannot select him, he must select himself. That is what
books are for.


III

Conveniences

It is the first importance of a true book that a man can select his
neighbours with it,--can overcome space, riches, poverty, and time with
it,--and the grave, and break bread with the dead. A book is a portable
miracle. It makes a man's native place all over for him, for a dollar
and a quarter; and many a man in this somewhat hard and despairing world
has been furnished with a new heaven and a new earth for twenty-five
cents. Out of a public library he has felt reached down to him the grasp
of heroes. Hurrying home in the night, perhaps, with his tiny life hid
under stars, but with a Book under his arm, he has felt a Greeting
against his breast and held it tight. "Who art thou, my lad?" it said;
"who art thou?" And the saying was not forgotten. If it is true that the
spirits of the mighty dead are abroad in the night they are turning the
leaves of books.

There are other inspiring things in the world, but there is nothing else
that carries itself among the sons of men like the book. With such
divine plenteousness--seeds of the worlds in it--it goes about flocking
on the souls of men. There is something so broadcast, so universal about
the way of a book with a man: boundless, subtle, ceaseless,
irresistible, following him and loving him, renewing him, delighting in
him and hoping for him--like a god. It is as the way of Nature herself
with a man. One cannot always feel it, but somehow, when I am really
living a real day, I feel as if some Great Book were around me--were
always around me. I feel myself all-enfolded, penetrated, surrounded
with it--the vast, gentle force of it--sky and earth of it. It is as if
I saw it, sometimes, building new boundaries for me, out there--softly,
gently, on the edges of the night--for me and for all human life.

Other inspiring things seem to be less steadfast for us. They cannot
always free themselves and then come and free us. Music cannot be
depended upon. It sings sometimes for and sometimes against us.
Sometimes, also, music is still--absolutely still, all the way down from
the stars to the grass. At best it is for some people and for others
not, and is addicted to places. It is a part of the air--part of the
climate in Germany, but there is but one country in the world made for
listening in--where any one, every one listens, the way one breathes.
The great pictures inspire, on the whole, but few people--most of them
with tickets. Cathedrals cannot be unmoored, have never been seen by the
majority of men at all, except in dreams and photographs. Most mountains
(for all practical purposes) are private property. The sea (a look at
the middle of it) is controlled by two or three syndicates. The sky--the
last stronghold of freedom--is rented out for the most part, where most
men live--in cities; and in New York and London the people who can
afford it pay taxes for air, and grass is a dollar a blade. Being born
is the only really free thing--and dying. Next to these in any just
estimate of the comparatively free raw material that goes to the making
of a human life comes the printed book.

A library, on the whole, is the purest and most perfect form of power
that exists, because it is a lever on the nature of things. If a man is
born with the wrong neighbours it brings the right ones flocking to him.
It is the universe to order. It makes the world like a globe in a
child's hands. He turns up the part where he chooses to live--now one
way and now another, that he may delight in it and live in it. If he is
a poet it is the meaning of life to him that he can keep on turning it
until he has delighted and tasted and lived in all of it.

The second importance of true books is that they are not satisfied with
the first. They are not satisfied to be used to influence a man from the
outside--as a kind of house-furnishing for his soul. A true book is
never a mere contrivance for arranging the right bit of sky for a man to
live his life under, or the right neighbours for him to live his life
with. It goes deeper than this. A mere playing upon a man's environment
does not seem to satisfy a true book. It plays upon the latent infinity
in the man himself. The majority of men are not merely conceived in sin
and born in lies, but they are the lies; and lies as well as truths flow
in their veins. Lies hold their souls back thousands of years. When one
considers the actual facts about most men, the law of environment seems
a clumsy and superficial law enough. If all that a book can do is to
appeal to the law of environment for a man, it does not do very much.
The very trees and stones do better for him, and the little birds in
their nests. No possible amount of environment crowded on their frail
souls would ever make it possible for most men to catch up--to overtake
enough truth before they die to make their seventy years worth while.
The majority of men (one hardly dares to deny) can be seen, sooner or
later, drifting down to death either bitterly or indifferently. The
shadows of their lives haunt us a little, then they vanish away from us
and from the sound of our voices. Oh, God, from behind Thy high
heaven--from out of Thy infinite wealth of years, hast Thou but the one
same pittance of threescore and ten for every man? Some of us are born
with the handicap of a thousand years woven in the nerves of our bodies,
the swiftness of our minds, and the delights of our limbs. Others of us
are born with the thousand years binding us down to blindness and
hobbling, holding us back to disease, but all with the same Imperious
Timepiece held above us, to run the same race, to overtake the same
truth--before the iron curtain and the dark. Some of us--a few men in
every generation--have two or three hundred years given to us outright
the day we are born. Then we are given seventy more. Others of us have
two hundred years taken away from us the day we are born. Then we are
given seventy years to make them up in, and it is called life.

If we are to shut ourselves up with one law, either the law of
environment or the law of heredity, it is obvious that the best a
logical man could do, would be to be ashamed of a universe like this and
creep out of it as soon as he could. The great glory of a great book is,
that it will not let itself be limited to the law of environment in
dealing with a man. It deals directly with the man himself. It appeals
to the law of heredity. It reaches down into the infinite depth of his
life. If a man has started a life with parents he had better not have
(for all practical purposes), it furnishes him with better ones. It
picks and chooses in behalf of his life out of his very grandfathers,
for him. It not only supplies him with a new set of neighbours as often
as he wants them. It sees that he is born again every morning on the
wide earth and that he has a new set of parents to be born to. It is a
part of the infinite and irrepressible hopefulness of this mortal life
that each man of us who dwells on the earth is the child of an infinite
marriage. We are all equipped, even the poorest of us, from the day we
begin, with an infinite number of fathers and an infinite number of
mothers--no telling, as we travel down the years, which shall happen to
us next. If what we call heredity were a matter of a few months,--a
narrow, pitiful, two-parent affair,--if the fate of a human being could
be shut in with what one man and one woman, playing and working, eating
and drinking, under heaven, for a score of years or more, would be
likely to have to give him from out of their very selves, heredity would
certainly be a whimsical, unjust, undignified law to come into a world
by, to don an immortal soul with. A man who has had his life so
recklessly begun for him could hardly be blamed for being reckless with
it afterward. But it is not true that the principle of heredity in a
human life can be confined to a single accident in it. We are all
infinite, and our very accidents are infinite. In the very flesh and
bones of our bodies we are infinite--brought from the furthest reaches
of eternity and the utmost bounds of created life to be ourselves. If we
were to do nothing else for threescore years, it is not in our human
breath to recite our fathers' names upon our lips. Each of us is the
child of an infinite mother, and from her breast, veiled in a thousand
years, we draw life, glory, sorrow, sleep, and death. The ones we call
fathers and mothers are but ambassadors to us--delegates from a million
graves--appointed for our birth. Every boy is a summed-up multitude. The
infinite crowd of his fathers beckons for him. As in some vast
amphitheatre he lives his life, before the innumerable audience of the
dead--each from its circle of centuries--calls to him, contends for him,
draws him to himself.

Inasmuch as every man who is born in the world is born with an infinite
outfit for living in it, it is the office of all books that are true and
beautiful books--true to the spirit of a man--that they shall play upon
the latent infinity in him; that they shall help him to select his
largest self; that they shall help him to give, as the years go on, the
right accent to the right fathers, in his life.

Books are more close to the latent infinity in a human being than
anything else can be, because the habit of the infinite is their habit.
As books are more independent of space and time than all other known
forces in the lives of men, they seem to make all the men who love them
independent also. If a man has not room for his life, he takes a book
and makes room for it. When the habit of books becomes the habit of a
man he unhands himself at will from space and time; he finds the
universe is his universe. He finds ancestors and neighbours alike
flocking to him--doing his bidding. God Himself says "Yes" to him and
delights in him. He has entered into conspiracy with the nature of
things. He does not feel that he is being made. He does not feel that he
is making himself. The universe is at work on him--under his own
supervision.


IV

The Charter of Possibility

In reading to select one's parents and one's self, there seem to be two
instincts involved. These instincts may vary more or less according to
the book and the mood of the reader, but the object of all live
reading--of every live experience with a book--is the satisfying of one
or both of them. A man whose reading means something to him is either
letting himself go in a book or letting himself come in it. He is either
reading himself out or reading himself in. It is as if every human life
were a kind of port on the edge of the universe, when it
reads,--possible selves outward-bound and inward-bound trooping before
It. Some of these selves are exports and some are imports.

If the principle of selection is conceived in a large enough spirit, and
is set in operation soon enough, and is continued long enough, there is
not a child that can be born on the earth who shall not be able to
determine by the use of books, in the course of the years, what manner
of man he shall be. He may not be able to determine how soon he shall be
that man, or how much of that man shall be fulfilled in himself before
he dies, and how much of him shall be left over to be fulfilled in his
children, but the fact remains that to an extraordinary degree, through
a live use of books, not only a man's education after he is born, but
his education before he is born, is placed in his hands. It is the
supreme office of books that they do this; that they place the laws of
heredity and environment where a man with a determined spirit can do
something besides cringing to them. Neither environment nor
heredity--taken by itself--can give a man a determined spirit, but it is
everything to know that, given a few books and the determined spirit
both, a man can have any environment he wants for living his life, and
his own assorted ancestors for living it. It is only by means of books
that a man can keep from living a partitioned-off life in the world--can
keep toned up to the divine sense of possibility in it. We hear great
men every day, across space and time, halloaing to one another in books,
and across all things, as we feel and read, is the call of our possible
selves. Even the impossible has been achieved, books tell us, in
history, again and again. It has been achieved by several men. This may
not prove very much, but if it does not prove anything else, it proves
that the possible, at least, is the privilege of the rest of us. It has
its greeting for every man. The sense of the possible crowds around him,
and not merely in his books nor merely in his life, but in the place
where his life and books meet--in his soul. However or wherever a man
may be placed, it is the great book that reminds him Who he is. It
reminds him who his Neighbour is. It is his charter of possibility.
Having seen, he acts on what he sees, and reads himself out and reads
himself in accordingly.


V

The Great Game

It would be hard to say which is the more important, reading for exports
or imports, reading one's self out or reading one's self in, but
inasmuch as the importance of reading one's self out is more generally
overlooked, it may be well to dwell upon it. Most of the reading
theories of the best people to-day, judging from the prohibitions of
certain books, overlook the importance altogether, in vital and normal
persons--especially the young,--of reading one's self out. It is only as
some people keep themselves read out, and read out regularly, that they
can be kept from bringing evil on the rest of us. If Eve had had a
novel, she would have sat down under the Tree and read about the fruit
instead of eating it. If Adam had had a morning paper, he would hardly
have listened to his wife's suggestion. If the Evil One had come up to
Eve in the middle of _Les Miserables_, or one of Rossetti's sonnets, no
one would ever have heard of him. The main misfortune of Adam and Eve
was that they had no arts to come to the rescue of their religion. If
Eve could have painted the apple, she would not have eaten it. She put
it into her mouth because she could not think of anything else to do
with it, and she had to do something. She had the artistic temperament
(inherited from her mother Sleep, probably, or from being born in a
dream), and the temptation of the artistic temperament is, that it gets
itself expressed or breaks something. She had tried everything--flowers,
birds, clouds, and her shadow in the stream, but she found they were all
inexpressible. She could not express them. She could not even express
herself. Taking walks in Paradise and talking with the one man the place
afforded was not a complete and satisfying self-expression. Adam had his
limitations--like all men. There were things that could not be said.

Standing as we do on the present height of history, with all the
resources of sympathy in the modern world, its countless arts drawing
the sexes together, going about understanding people, communing with
them, and expressing them, making a community for every man, even in his
solitude, it is not hard to see that the comparative failure of the
first marriage was a matter of course. The real trouble was that Adam
and Eve, standing in their brand-new world, could not express themselves
to one another. As there was nothing else to express them, they were
bored. It is to Eve's credit that she was more bored than Adam was, and
that she resented it more; and while a Fall, under the circumstances,
was as painful as it was inevitable, and a rather extreme measure on
Eve's part, no one will deny that it afforded relief on the main point.
It seems to be the universal instinct of all Eve's sons and daughters
that have followed since, that an expressive world is better than a dull
one. An expressive world is a world in which all the men and women are
getting themselves expressed, either in their experiences or in their
arts--that is, in other people's experiences.

The play, the picture, and the poem and the novel and the symphony have
all been the outgrowth of Eve's infinity. She could not contain herself.
She either had more experience than she could express, or she had more
to express than she could possibly put into experience.

One of the worst things that we know about the Japanese is that they
have no imperative mood in the language. To be able to say of a nation
that it has been able to live for thousands of years without feeling the
need of an imperative, is one of the most terrible and sweeping
accusations that has ever been made against a people on the earth.
Swearing may not be respectable, but it is a great deal more respectable
than never wanting to. Either a man is dead in this world, or he is out
looking for words on it. There is a great place left over in him, and as
long as that place is left over, it is one of the practical purposes of
books to make it of some use to him. Whether the place is a good one or
a bad one, something must be done with it, and books must do it.

If there were wordlessness for five hundred years, man would seek vast
inarticulate words for himself. Cathedrals would rise from the ground
undreamed as yet to say we worshipped. Music would be the daily
necessity of the humblest life. Orchestras all around the world would be
created,--would float language around the dumbness in it. Composers
would become the greatest, the most practical men in all the nations.
Viaducts would stretch their mountains of stone across the valleys to
find a word that said we were strong. Out of the stones of the hills,
the mists of rivers, out of electricity, even out of silence itself, we
would force expression. From the time a baby first moves his limbs to
when--an old man--he struggles for his last breath, the one imperious
divine necessity of life is expression. Hence the artist now and for
ever--the ruler of history--whoever makes it. And if he cannot make it,
he makes the makers of it. The artist is the man who, failing to find
neighbours for himself, makes his neighbours with his own hands. If a
woman is childless, she paints Madonnas. It is the inspiration, the
despair that rests over all life. If we cannot express ourselves in
things that are made, we make things, and if we cannot express ourselves
in the things we make, we turn to words, and if we cannot express
ourselves in words, we turn to other men's words.

The man who is satisfied with one life does not exist. The suicide does
not commit suicide because he is tired of life, but because he wants so
many more lives that he cannot have. The native of the tropics buys a
book to the North Pole. If we are poor, we grow rich on paper. We roll
in carriages through the highway of letters. If we are rich, we revel in
a printed poverty. We cry our hearts out over our starving
paper-children and hold our shivering, aching magazine hands over dying
coals in garrets we live in by subscription at three dollars a year. The
Bible is the book that has influenced men most in the world because it
has expressed them the most. The moment it ceases to be the most
expressive book, it will cease to be the most practical and effective
one in human life. There is more of us than we can live. The touch of
the infinite through which our spirits wandered is still upon us. The
world cries to the poet: "Give me a new word--a word--a word! I will
have a word!" It cries to the great man out of all its narrow places:
"Give me another life! I will have a new life!" and every hero the world
has known is worn threadbare with worship, because his life says for
other men what their lives have tried to say. Every masterful life calls
across the world a cry of liberty to pent-up dreams, to the ache of
faith in all of us, "Here thou art my brother--this is thy heart that I
have lived." A hero is immortalised because his life is every man's
larger self. So through the day-span of our years--a tale that is never
told--we wander on, the infinite heart of each of us prisoned in blood
and flesh and the cry of us everywhere, throughout all being, "Give me
room!" It cries to the composer, "Make a high wide place for me!" and on
the edge of the silence between life and words, to music we come at last
because it is the supreme confidante of the human heart, the
confessional, the world-priest between the actual self and the larger
self of all of us. With all the multiplying of arts and the piling up of
books that have come to us, the most important experience that men have
had in this world since they began on it, is that they are infinite,
that they cannot be expressed on it. It is not infrequently said that
men must get themselves expressed in living, but the fact remains that
no one has ever heard of a man as yet who really did it, or who was
small enough to do it. There was One who seemed to express Himself by
living and by dying both, but if He had any more than succeeded in
beginning to express Himself, no one would have believed that He was the
Son of God,--even that He was the Son of Man. It was because He could
not crowd all that He was into thirty-three short years and twelve
disciples and one Garden of Gethsemane and one Cross that we know who He
was.

Riveted down to its little place with iron circumstance, the actual self
in every man depends upon the larger possible self for the something
that makes the actual self worth while. It is hard to be held down by
circumstance, but it would be harder to be contented there, to live
without those intimations of our diviner birth that come to us in
books--books that weave some of the glory we have missed in our actual
lives, into the glory of our thoughts. Even if life be to the uttermost
the doing of what are called practical things, it is only by the
occasional use of his imagination in reading or otherwise, that the
practical man can hope to be in physical or mental condition to do them.
He needs a rest from his actual self. A man cannot even be practical
without this imaginary or larger self. Unless he can work off his
unexpressed remnant, his limbs are not free. Even down to the meanest of
us, we are incurably larger than anything we can do.

Reading a book is a game a man plays with his own infinity.


VI

Outward Bound

If there could only be arranged some mystical place over the edge of
human existence, where we all could go and practise at living, have
full-dress rehearsals of our parts, before we are hustled in front of
the footlights in our very swaddling clothes, how many people are there
who have reached what are fabulously called years of discretion, who
would not believe in such a place, and who would not gladly go back to
it and spend most of the rest of their lives there?

This is one of the things that the world of books is for. Most of us
would hardly know what to do without it, the world of books, if only as
a place to make mistakes and to feel foolish in. It seems to be the one
great unobserved retreat, where all the sons of men may go, may be seen
flocking day and night, to get the experiences they would not have, to
be ready for those they cannot help having. It is the Rehearsal Room of
History. The gods watch it--this Place of Books--as we who live go
silent, trooping back and forth in it--the ceaseless, heartless, awful,
beautiful pantomime of life.

It seems to be the testimony of human nature, after a somewhat
immemorial experience, that some things in us had better be expressed by
being lived, and that other things had better be expressed--if
possible--in some other way.

There are a great many men, even amongst the wisest and strongest of us,
who benefit every year of their lives by what might be called the
purgative function of literature,--men who, if they did not have a
chance at the right moment to commit certain sins with their imaginary
selves, would commit them with their real ones. Many a man of the larger
and more comprehensive type, hungering for the heart of all experience,
bound to have its spirit, if not itself, has run the whole gamut of his
possible selves in books, until all the sins and all the songs of men
have coursed through his being. He finds himself reading not only to
fill his lungs with ozone and his heart with the strength of the gods,
but to work off the humour in his blood, to express his underself, and
get it out of the way. Women who never cry their tears out--it is
said--are desperate, and men who never read their sins away are
dangerous. People who are tired of doing wrong on paper do right. To be
sick of one's sins in a book saves not only one's self but every one
else a deal of trouble. A man has not learned how to read until he reads
with his veins as well as his arteries.

It would be useless to try to make out that evil passions in literature
accomplish any absolute good, but they accomplish a relative good which
the world can by no means afford to overlook. The amount of crime that
is suggested by reading can be more than offset by the extraordinary
amount of crime waiting in the hearts of men, aimed at the world and
glanced off on paper.

There are many indications that this purgative function of literature is
the main thing it is for in our present modern life. Modern life is so
constituted that the majority of people who live in it are expressing
their real selves more truly in their reading than they are in their
lives. When one stops to consider what these lives are--most of
them--there can be but one conclusion about the reading of the people
who have to live them, and that is that while sensational reading may be
an evil, as compared with the evil that has made it necessary, it is an
immeasurable blessing.

The most important literary and artistic fact of the nineteenth century
is the subdivision of labour--that is, the subdividing of every man's
life and telling him he must only be alive in a part of it. In
proportion as an age takes sensations out of men's lives it is obliged
to put them into their literature. Men are used to sensations on the
earth as long as they stay on it and they are bound to have them in one
way or another. An age which narrows the actual lives of men, which so
adjusts the labour of the world that nearly every man in it not only
works with a machine, spiritual or otherwise, but is a machine himself,
and a small part of a machine, must not find fault with its art for
being full of hysterics and excitement, or with its newspapers for being
sensational. Instead of finding fault it has every reason to be
grateful--to thank a most merciful Heaven that the men in the world are
still alive enough in it to be capable of feeling sensation in other
men's lives, though they have ceased to be capable of having sensations
in their own, or of feeling sensations if they had them. It was when the
herds of her people were buried in routine and peace that Rome had
bull-fights. New York, with its hordes of drudges, ledger-slaves,
machinists, and clerks, has the New York _World_. It lasts longer than a
bull-fight and it can be had every morning before a man starts off to be
a machine and every evening when he gets back from being a machine--for
one cent. On Sunday a whole Colosseum fronts him and he is glutted with
gore from morning until night. To a man who is a penholder by the week,
or a linotype machine, or a ratchet in a factory, a fight is infinite
peace. Obedience to the command of Scripture, making the Sabbath a day
of rest, is entirely relative. Some of us are rested by taking our
under-interested lives to a Sunday paper, and others are rested by
taking our over-interested lives to church. Men read dime novels in
proportion as their lives are staid and mechanical. Men whose lives are
their own dime novels are bored by printed ones. Men whose years are
crowded with crises, culminations, and events, who run the most risks in
business, are found with the steadiest papers in their hands. The
train-boy knows that the people who buy the biggest headlines are all on
salaries and that danger and blood and thunder are being read nowadays
by effeminately safe men, because it is the only way they can be had.

But it is not only the things that are left out of men's lives but the
things they have too much of, which find their remedy in books. They are
the levers with which the morbid is controlled. _Similia similibus
curantur_ may be a dangerous principle to be applied by everybody, but
thousands of men and women mulling away on their lives and worrying
themselves with themselves, cutting a wide swath of misery wherever they
go, have suddenly stopped in a book--have purged away jealousy and
despair and passion and nervous prostration in it. A paper-person with
melancholia is a better cure for gloom than a live clown can be--who
merely goes about reminding people how sad they are.

A man is often heard to say that he has tragedy enough in his own life
not to want to go to a play for more, but this much having been said and
truly said, he almost always goes to the play--to see how true it is.
The stage is his huge confidante. Pitying one's self is a luxury, but it
takes a great while, and one can never do it enough. Being pitied by a
five-thousand-dollar house, and with incidental music, all for a dollar
and a half, is a sure and quick way to cheer up. Being pitied by Victor
Hugo is a sure way also. Hardy can do people's pitying for them much
better than they can do it, and it's soon over and done with. It is
noticeable that while the impressive books, the books that are written
to impress people, have a fair and nominal patronage, it is the
expressive books, the books that let people out, which have the enormous
sales. This seems to be true of the big-sale books whether the people
expressed in them are worth expressing (to any one but themselves) or
not. The principle of getting one's self expressed is so largely in
evidence that not only the best but the worst of our books illustrate
it. Our popular books are carbuncles mostly. They are the inevitable and
irrepressible form of the instinct of health in us, struggling with
disease. On the whole, it makes being an optimist in modern life a
little less of a tight-rope-walk. If even the bad elements in current
literature--which are discouraging enough--are making us better, what
shall be said of the good?




Book III

Details. The Confessions of an Unscientific Mind




I--Unscientific


I

On Being Intelligent in a Library

I have a way every two or three days or so, of an afternoon, of going
down to our library, sliding into the little gate by the shelves, and
taking a long empty walk there. I have found that nothing quite takes
the place of it for me,--wandering up and down the aisles of my
ignorance, letting myself be loomed at, staring doggedly back. I always
feel when I go out the great door as if I had won a victory. I have at
least faced the facts. I swing off to my tramp on the hills where is the
sense of space, as if I had faced the bully of the world, the whole
assembled world, in his own den, and he had given me a license to live.

Of course it only lasts a little while. One soon feels a library
nowadays pulling on him. One has to go back and do it all over again,
but for the time being it affords infinite relief. It sets one in right
relations to the universe, to the original plan of things. One suspects
that if God had originally intended that men on this planet should be
crowded off by books on it, it would not have been put off to the
twentieth century.

I was saying something of this sort to The Presiding Genius of the State
of Massachusetts the other day, and when I was through he said promptly:
"The way a man feels in a library (if any one can get him to tell it)
lets out more about a man than anything else in the world."

It did not seem best to make a reply to this. I didn't think it would do
either of us any good.

Finally, in spite of myself, I spoke up and allowed that I felt as
intelligent in a library as anybody.

He did not say anything.

When I asked him what he thought being intelligent in a library was, he
took the general ground that it consisted in always knowing what one was
about there, in knowing exactly what one wanted.

I replied that I did not think that that was a very intelligent state of
mind to be in, in a library.

Then I waited while he told me (fifteen minutes) what an intelligent
mind was anywhere (nearly everywhere, it seemed to me). But I did not
wait in vain, and at last, when he had come around to it, and had asked
me what I thought the feeling of intelligence consisted in, in
libraries, I said it consisted in being pulled on by the books.

I said quite a little after this, and of course the general run of my
argument was that I was rather intelligent myself. The P. G. S. of M.
had little to say to this, and after he had said how intelligent he was
awhile, the conversation was dropped.

       *       *       *       *       *

The question that concerns me is, What shall a man do, how shall he act,
when he finds himself in the hush of a great library,--opens the door
upon it, stands and waits in the midst of it, with his poor outstretched
soul all by himself before IT,--and feels the books pulling on him? I
always feel as if it were a sort of infinite crossroads. The last thing
I want to know in a library is exactly what I want there. I am tired of
knowing what I want. I am always knowing what I want. I can know what I
want almost anywhere. If there is a place left on God's earth where a
modern man can go and go regularly and not know what he wants awhile, in
Heaven's name why not let him? I am as fond as the next man, I think, of
knowing what I am about, but when I find myself ushered into a great
library I do not know what I am about any sooner than I can help. I
shall know soon enough--God forgive me! When it is given to a man to
stand in the Assembly Room of Nations, to feel the ages, all the ages,
gathering around him, flowing past his life; to listen to the immortal
stir of Thought, to the doings of The Dead, why should a man
interrupt--interrupt a whole world--to know what he is about? I stand at
the junction of all Time and Space. I am the three tenses. I read the
newspaper of the universe.

It fades away after a little, I know. I go to the card catalogue like a
lamb to the slaughter, poke my head into Knowledge--somewhere--and am
lost, but the light of it on the spirit does not fade away. It leaves a
glow there. It plays on the pages afterward.

There is a certain fine excitement about taking a library in this
fashion, a sense of spaciousness of joy in it, which one is almost
always sure to miss in libraries--most libraries--by staying in them.
The only way one can get any real good out of a modern library seems to
be by going away in the nick of time. If one stays there is no help for
it. One is soon standing before the card catalogue, sorting one's wits
out in it, filing them away, and the sense of boundlessness both in
one's self and everybody else--the thing a library is for--is fenced off
for ever.

At least it seems fenced off for ever. One sees the universe barred and
patterned off with a kind of grating before it. It is a card-catalogue
universe.

I can only speak for one, but I must say for myself, that as compared
with this feeling one has in the door, this feeling of standing over a
library--mere reading in it, sitting down and letting one's self be
tucked into a single book in it--is a humiliating experience.


II

How It Feels

I am not unaware that this will seem to some--this empty doting on
infinity, this standing and staring at All-knowledge--a mere dizzying
exercise, whirling one's head round and round in Nothing, for Nothing.
And I am not unaware that it would be unbecoming in me or in any other
man to feel superior to a card catalogue.

A card catalogue, of course, as a device for making a kind of tunnel for
one's mind in a library--for working one's way through it--is useful and
necessary to all of us. Certainly, if a man insists on having infinity
in a convenient form--infinity in a box--it would be hard to find
anything better to have it in than a card catalogue.

But there are times when one does not want infinity in a box. He loses
the best part of it that way. He prefers it in its natural state. All
that I am contending for is, that when these times come, the times when
a man likes to feel infinite knowledge crowding round him,--feel it
through the backs of unopened books, and likes to stand still and think
about it, worship with the thought of it,--he ought to be allowed to. It
is true that there is no sign up against it (against thinking in
libraries). But there might as well be. It amounts to the same thing. No
one is expected to. People are expected to keep up an appearance, at
least, of doing something else there. I do not dare to hope that the
next time I am caught standing and staring in a library, with a kind of
blank, happy look, I shall not be considered by all my kind
intellectually disreputable for it. I admit that it does not look
intelligent--this standing by a door and taking in a sweep of
books--this reading a whole library at once. I can imagine how it looks.
It looks like listening to a kind of cloth and paper chorus--foolish
enough; but if I go out of the door to the hills again, refreshed for
them and lifted up to them, with the strength of the ages in my limbs,
great voices all around me, flocking my solitary walk--who shall gainsay
me?


III

How a Specialist can Be an Educated Man

It is a sad thing to go into a library nowadays and watch the people
there who are merely making tunnels through it. Some libraries are worse
than others--seem to be made for tunnels. College libraries, perhaps,
are the worst. One can almost--if one stands still enough in them--hear
what is going on. It is getting to be practically impossible in a
college library to slink off to a side shelf by one's self, take down
some gentle-hearted book one does not need to read there and begin to
listen in it, without hearing some worthy person quietly, persistently
boring himself around the next corner. It is getting worse every year.
The only way a readable library book can be read nowadays is to take it
away from the rest of them. It must be taken where no other reading is
going on. The busy scene of a crowd of people--mere specialists and
others--gathered around roofing their minds in is no fitting place for a
great book or a live book to be read--a book that uncovers the universe.

On the other hand, it were certainly a trying universe if it were
uncovered all the time, if one had to be exposed to all of it and to all
of it at once, always; and there is no denying that libraries were
intended to roof men's minds in sometimes as well as to take the roofs
of their minds off. What seems to be necessary is to find some middle
course in reading between the scientist's habit of tunnelling under the
dome of knowledge and the poet's habit of soaring around in it. There
ought to be some principle of economy in knowledge which will allow a
man, if he wants to, or knows enough, to be a poet and a scientist both.
It is well enough for a mere poet to take a library as a spectacle--a
kind of perpetual Lick Observatory to peek at the universe with, if he
likes, and if a man is a mere scientist, there is no objection to his
taking a library as a kind of vast tunnel system, or chart for
burrowing. But the common educated man--the man who is in the business
of being a human being, unless he knows some middle course in a library,
knows how to use its Lick Observatory and its tunnel system both--does
not get very much out of it. If there can be found some principle of
economy in knowledge, common to artists and scientists alike, which will
make it possible for a poet to know something, and which will make it
possible for a scientist to know a very great deal without being--to
most people--a little underwitted, it would very much simplify the
problem of being educated in modern times, and there would be a general
gratefulness.

Far be it from me to seem to wish to claim this general gratefulness for
myself. I have no world-reforming feeling about the matter. I would be
very grateful just here to be allowed to tuck in a little idea--no chart
to go with it--on this general subject, which my mind keeps coming back
to, as it runs around watching people.

There seem to be but two ways of knowing. One of them is by the spirit
and the other is by the letter. The most reasonable principle of economy
in knowledge would seem to be, that in all reading that pertains to
man's specialty--his business in knowledge--he should read by the
letter, knowing the facts by observing them himself, and that in all
other reading he should read through the spirit of imagination--the
power of taking to one's self facts that have been observed by others.
If a man wants to be a specialist he must do his knowing like a
scientist; but if a scientist wants to be a man he must be a poet; he
must learn how to read like a poet; he must educate in himself the power
of absorbing immeasurable knowledge, the facts of which have been
approved and observed by others.

The weak point in our modern education seems to be that it has broken
altogether with the spirit or the imagination. Playing upon the spirit
or the imagination of a man is the one method possible to employ in
educating him in everything except his specialty. It is the one method
possible to employ in making even a powerful specialist of him; in
relating his specialty to other specialties; that is, in making either
him or his specialty worth while.

Inasmuch as it has been decreed that every man in modern life must be a
specialist, the fundamental problem that confronts modern education is,
How can a specialist be an educated man? There would seem to be but one
way a specialist can be an educated man. The only hope for a specialist
lies in his being allowed to have a soul (or whatever he chooses to call
it), a spirit or an imagination. If he has This, whatever it is, in one
way or another, he will find his way to every book he needs. He will
read all the books there are in his specialty. He will read all other
books through their backs.


IV

On Reading Books through Their Backs

As this is the only way the majority of books can be read by anybody,
one wonders why so little has been said about it.

Reading books through their backs is easily the most important part of a
man's outfit, if he wishes to be an educated man. It is not necessary to
prove this statement. The books themselves prove it without even being
opened. The mere outside of a library--almost any library--would seem to
settle the point that if a man proposes to be in any larger or deeper
sense a reader of books, the books must be read through their backs.

Even the man who is obliged to open books in order to read them sooner
or later admits this. He finds the few books he opens in the literal or
unseeing way do not make him see anything. They merely make him see that
he ought to have opened the others--that he must open the others; that
is, if he is to know anything. The next thing he sees is that he must
open all the others to know anything. When he comes to know this he may
be said to have reached what is called, by stretch of courtesy, a state
of mind. It is the scientific state of mind. Any man who has watched his
mind a little knows what this means. It is the first incipient symptom
in a mind that science is setting in.

The only possible cure for it is reading books through their backs. As
this scientific state of mind is the main obstacle nowadays in the way
of reading books through their backs, it is fitting, perhaps, at this
point that I should dwell on it a little.

I do not claim to be a scientist, and I have never--even in my worst
moments--hoped for a scientific mind. I am afraid I know as well as any
one who has read as far as this, in this book, that I cannot prove
anything. The book has at least proved that; but it does seem to me that
there are certain things that very much need to be said about the
scientific mind, in its general relation to knowledge. I would give the
world to be somebody else for awhile and say them--right here in the
middle of my book. But I know as well as any one, after all that has
passed, that if I say anything about the scientific mind nobody will
believe it. The best I can do is to say how I feel about the scientific
mind. "And what has that to do with it?" exclaims the whole world and
all its laboratories. What is really wanted in dealing with this matter
seems to be some person--some grave, superficial person--who will take
the scientific mind up scientifically, shake it and filter it, put it
under the microscope, stare at it with a telescope, stick the X-ray
through it, lay it on the operating table--show what is the matter with
it--even to itself. Anything that is said about the scientific mind
which is not said in a big, bow-wow, scientific, impersonal,
out-of-the-universe sort of way will not go very far.

And yet, the things that need to be said about the scientific mind--the
things that need to be done for it--need to be said and done so very
much, that it seems as if almost any one might help. So I am going to
keep on trying. Let no one suppose, however, that because I have turned
around the corner into another chapter, I am setting myself up as a
sudden and new authority on the scientific mind. I do not tell how it
feels to be scientific. I merely tell how it looks as if it felt.

I have never known a great scientist, and I can only speak of the kind
of scientist I have generally met--the kind every one meets nowadays,
the average, bare scientist. He always looks to me as if he had a grudge
against the universe--jealous of it or something. There are so many
things in it he cannot know and that he has no use for unless he does.
It always seems to me (perhaps it seems so to most of us in this world,
who are running around and enjoying things and guessing on them) that
the average scientist has a kind of dreary and disgruntled look, a look
of feeling left out. Nearly all the universe goes to waste with a
scientist. He fixes himself so that it has to. If a man cannot get the
good of a thing until he knows it and knows all of it, he cannot expect
to be happy in this universe. There are no conveniences for his being
happy in it. It is the wrong size, to begin with. Exact knowledge at its
best, or even at its worst, does not let a man into very many things in
a universe like this one. A large part of it is left over with a
scientist. It is the part that is left over which makes him unhappy. I
am not claiming that a scientist, simply because he is a scientist, is
any unhappier or needs to be any unhappier than other men are. He does
not need to be. It all comes of a kind of brutal, sweeping, overriding
prejudice he has against guessing on anything.


V

On Keeping Each Other in Countenance

I do not suppose that my philosophising on this subject--a sort of slow,
peristaltic action of my own mind--is of any particular value; that it
really makes any one feel any better except myself.

But it has just occurred to me that I may have arisen, quite as well as
not, without knowing it, to the dignity of the commonplace.

"The man who thinks he is playing a solo in any human experience," says
this morning's paper, "only needs a little more experience to know that
he is a member of a chorus." I suspect myself of being a Typical Case.
The scientific mind has taken possession of all the land. It has assumed
the right of eminent domain in it, and there must be other human beings
here and there, I am sure, standing aghast at learning in our modern
day, even as I am, their whys and wherefores working within them, trying
to wonder their way out in this matter.

All that is necessary, as I take it, is for one or the other of us to
speak up in the world, barely peep in it, make himself known wherever he
is, tell how he feels, and he will find he is not alone. Then we will
get together. We will keep each other in countenance. We will play with
our minds if we want to. We will take the liberty of knowing rows of
things we don't know all about, and we will be as happy as we like, and
if we keep together we will manage to have a fairly educated look
besides. I am very sure of this. But it is the sort of thing a man
cannot do alone. If he tries to do it with any one else, any one that
happens along, he is soon come up with. It cannot be done in that way.
There is no one to whom to turn. Almost every mind one knows in this
modern educated world is a suspicious, unhappy, abject, helpless,
scientific mind.

It is almost impossible to find a typical educated mind, either in this
country or in Europe or anywhere, that is not a rolled-over mind,
jealous and crushed by knowledge day and night, and yet staring at its
ignorance everywhere. The scientist is almost always a man who takes his
mind seriously, and he takes the universe as seriously as he takes his
mind. Instead of glorying in a universe and being a little proud of it
for being such an immeasurable, unspeakable, unknowable success, his
whole state of being is one of worry about it. The universe seems to
irritate him somehow. Has he not spent years of hard labour in making
his mind over, in drilling it into not-thinking, into not-inferring
things, into not-knowing anything he does not know all of? And yet here
he is and here is his whole life--does it not consist in being baffled
by germs and bacilli, crowed over by atoms, trampled on by the stars? It
is getting so that there is but one thing left that the modern, educated
scientific mind feels that it knows and that is the impossibility of
knowledge. Certainly if there is anything in this wide world that can
possibly be in a more helpless, more pulp-like state than the scientific
mind in the presence of something that cannot be known, something that
can only be used by being wondered at (which is all most of the universe
is for), it has yet to be pointed out.

He may be better off than he looks, and I don't doubt he quite looks
down on me as,

  A mere poet,
  The Chanticleer of Things,
  Who lives to flap his wings--
  It's all he knows,--
  They're never furled;
  Who plants his feet
  On the ridge-pole of the world
  And crows.

Still, I like it very well. I don't know anything better that can be
done with the world, and as I have said before I say again, my friend
and brother, the scientist, is either very great or very small, or he is
moderately, decently unhappy. At least this is the way it looks from the
ridge-pole of the world.


VI

The Romance of Science

Science is generally accredited with being very matter-of-fact. But
there has always been one romance in science from the first,--its
romantic attitude toward itself. It would be hard to find any greater
romance in modern times. The romance of science is the assumption that
man is a plain, pure-blooded, non-inferring, mere-observing being and
that in proportion as his brain is educated he must not use it.
"Deductive reasoning has gone out with the nineteenth century," says The
Strident Voice. This is the one single inference that the scientific
method seems to have been able to make--the inference that no inference
has a right to exist.

So far as I can see, if there are going to be inferences anyway, and one
has to take one's choice in inferring, I would rather have a few
inferences on hand that I can live with every day than to have this one
huge, voracious inference (the scientist's) which swallows all the
others up. For that matter, when the scientist has actually made
it,--this one huge guess that he hasn't a right to guess,--what good
does it do him? He never lives up to it, and all the time he has his
poor, miserable theory hanging about him, dogging him day and night.
Does he not keep on guessing in spite of himself? Does he not live
plumped up against mystery every hour of his life, crowded on by
ignorance, forced to guess if only to eat? Is he not browbeaten into
taking things for granted whichever way he turns? He becomes a doleful,
sceptical, contradictory, anxious, disagreeable, disapproving person as
a matter of course.

One would think, in the abstract, that a certain serenity would go with
exact knowledge; and it would, if a man were willing to put up with a
reasonable amount of exact knowledge, eke it out with his brains, some
of it; but when he wants all the exact knowledge there is, and nothing
else but exact knowledge, and is not willing to mix his brains with it,
it is different. When a man puts his whole being into a vise of exact
knowledge, he finds that he has about as perfect a convenience for being
miserable as could possibly be devised. He soon becomes incapable of
noticing things or of enjoying things in the world for themselves. With
one or two exceptions, I have never known a scientist to whom his
knowing a thing, or not knowing it, did not seem the only important
thing about it. Of course when a man's mind gets into this dolefully
cramped, exact condition, a universe like this is not what it ought to
be for him. He lives too unprotected a life. His whole attitude toward
the universe becomes one of wishing things would keep off of him in
it--things he does not know. Are there not enough things he does not
know even in his specialty? And as for this eternal being reminded of
the others, this slovenly habit of "general information" that interesting
people have--this guessing, inferring, and generalising--what is it all
for? What does it all come to? If a man is after knowledge, let him have
knowledge, knowledge that is knowledge, let him find a fact, anything
for a fact, get God into a corner, hug one fact and live with it and die
with it.

When a man once gets into this shut-in attitude it is of little use to
put a word in, with him, for the daily habit of taking the roof off
one's mind, letting the universe play upon it instead of trying to bore
a hole in it somewhere. "What does it avail after all, after it is all
over, after a long life, even if the hole is bored," I say to him, "to
stand by one's little hole and cry, 'Behold, oh, human race, this Gimlet
Hole which I have bored in infinite space! Let it be forever named for
me.'" And in the meantime the poor fellow gets no joy out of living. He
does not even get credit for his not-living, seventy years of it. He
fences off his little place to know a little of nothing in, becomes a
specialist, a foot note to infinite space, and is never noticed
afterwards (and quite reasonably) by any one--not even by himself.


VII

Monads

I am not saying that this is the way a scientist--a mere scientist, one
who has the fixed habit of not reading books through their backs--really
feels. It is the way he ought to feel. As often as not he feels quite
comfortable. One sees one every little while (the mere scientist)
dropping the entire universe with a dull thud and looking happy after
it.

But the best ones are different. Even those who are not quite the best
are different. It is really a very rare scientist who joggles
contentedly down without qualms, or without delays, to a hole in space.
There is always a capability, an apparently left-over capability in him.
What seems to happen is, that when the average human being makes up his
mind to it, insists on being a scientist, the Lord keeps a remnant of
happiness in him--a gnawing on the inside of him which will not let him
rest.

This remnant of happiness in him, his soul, or inferring organ, or
whatever it may be, makes him suspect that the scientific method as a
complete method is a false, superficial, and dangerous method,
threatening the very existence of all knowledge that is worth knowing on
the earth. He begins to suspect that a mere scientist, a man who cannot
even make his mind work both ways, backwards or forwards, as he likes
(the simplest, most rudimentary motion of a mind), inductively or
deductively, is bound to have something left out of all of his
knowledge. He sees that the all-or-nothing assumption in knowledge, to
say nothing of not applying to the arts, in which it is always sterile,
does not even apply to the physical sciences--to the mist, dust, fire,
and water out of which the earth and the scientist are made.

For men who are living their lives as we are living ours, in the shimmer
of a globule in space, it is not enough that we should lift our faces to
the sky and blunder and guess at a God there, because there is so much
room between the stars, and murmur faintly, "Spiritual things are
spiritually discerned." By the infinite bones of our bodies, by the
seeds of the million years that flow in our veins, _material_ things are
spiritually discerned. There is not science enough nor scientific method
enough in the schools of all Christendom for a man to listen
intelligently to his own breathing with, or to know his own thumb-nail.
Is not his own heart thundering the infinite through him--beating the
eternal against his sides--even while he speaks? And does he not know it
while he speaks?

By the time a man's a Junior or a Senior nowadays, if he feels the
eternal beating against his sides he thinks it must be something else.
He thinks he ought to. It is a mere inference. At all events he has
little use for it unless he knows just how eternal it is. I am speaking
too strongly? I suppose I am. I am thinking of my four special
boys--boys I have been doing my living in, the last few years. I cannot
help speaking a little strongly. Two of them--two as fine, flash-minded,
deep-lit, wide-hearted fellows as one would like to see, are down at
W----, being cured of inferring in a four years' course at the W----
Scientific School. Another one, who always seemed to me to have real
genius in him, who might have had a period in literature named after
him, almost, if he'd stop studying literature, is taking a graduate
course at M----, learning that it cannot be proved that Shakespeare
wrote Shakespeare. He has already become one of these spotlessly
accurate persons one expects nowadays. (I hardly dare to hope he will
even read this book of mine, with all his affection for me, after the
first few pages or so, lest he should fall into a low or wondering state
of mind.) My fourth boy, who was the most promising of all, whose mind
reached out the farthest, who was always touching new possibilities, a
fresh, warm-blooded, bright-eyed fellow, is down under a manhole
studying God in the N---- Theological Seminary.

This may not be exactly a literal statement, nor a very scientific way
to criticise the scientific method, but when one has had to sit and see
four of the finest minds he ever knew snuffed out by it,--whatever else
may be said for science, scientific language is not satisfying. What is
going to happen to us next, in our little town, I hardly dare to know. I
only know that three relentlessly inductive, dull, brittle, _blase_, and
springless youths from S---- University have just come down and taken
possession of our High School. They seem to be throwing, as near as I
can judge, a spell of the impossibility of knowledge over the boys we
have left.

I admit that I am in an unreasonable state of mind.[3] I think a great
many people are. At least I hope so. There is no excuse for not being a
little unreasonable. Sometimes it almost seems, when one looks at the
condition of most college boys' minds, as if our colleges were becoming
the moral and spiritual and intellectual dead-centres of modern life.

    [3] Fact.

I will not yield to any man in admiration for Science--holy and
speechless Science; holier than any religion has ever been yet; what
religions are made of and are going to be made of, nor am I dating my
mind three hundred years back and trying to pick a quarrel with Lord
Bacon. I am merely wondering whether, if science is to be taught at all,
it had not better be taught, in each branch of it, by men who are
teaching a subject they have conceived with their minds instead of a
subject which has been merely unloaded on them, piled up on top of their
minds, and which their minds do not know anything about.

No one seems to have stopped to notice what the spectacle of science as
taught in college is getting to be--the spectacle of one set of minds
which has been crunched by knowledge crunching another set. Have you
never been to One, oh Gentle Reader, and watched It, watched It when It
was working, one of these great Endowed Fact-machines, wound up by the
dead, going round and round, thousands and thousands of youths in it
being rolled out and chilled through and educated in it, having their
souls smoothed out of them? Hundreds of human minds, small and sure and
hard, working away on thousands of other human minds, making them small
and sure and hard. Matter--infinite matter everywhere--taught by More
Matter,--taught the way Matter would teach if it knew how--without
generalising, without putting facts together to make truths out of them.

It would seem, looking at it theoretically, that Science, of all things
in this world, the stuff that dreams are made of; the one boundless
subject of the earth, face to face and breath to breath with the Creator
every minute of its life, would be taught with a divine touch in it,
with the appeal to the imagination and the soul, to the world-building
instinct in a man, the thing in him that puts universes together, the
thing in him that fills the whole dome of space and all the crevices of
being with the whisper of God.

But it is not so. Science is great, and great scientists are great as a
matter of course; but the sciences in the meantime are being taught in
our colleges--in many of them, most of them--by men whose minds are mere
registering machines. The facts are put in at one end (one click per
fact) and come out facts at the other. The sciences are being taught
more and more every year by moral and spiritual stutterers, men with
non-inferring minds, men who live in a perfect deadlock of knowledge,
men who cannot generalise about a fly's wing, bashful, empty, limp, and
hopeless and doddering before the commonplacest, sanest, and simplest
generalisations of human life. In The Great Free Show, in our common
human peep at it, who has not seen them, staggering to know what the
very children, playing with dolls and rocking-horses, can take for
granted? Minds which seem absolutely incapable of striking out, of
taking a good, manly stride on anything, mincing in religion, effeminate
in enthusiasm--please forgive me, Gentle Reader, I know I ought not to
carry on in this fashion, but have I not spent years in my soul
(sometimes it seems hundreds of years) in being humble--in being abject
before this kind of mind? It is only a day almost since I have found it
out, broken away from it, got hold of the sky to hoot at it with. I am
free now. I am not going to be humble longer, before it. I have spent
years dully wondering before this mind; wondering what was the matter
with me that I could not love it, that I could not go where it loved to
go, and come when it said "Come" to me. I have spent years in dust and
ashes before it, struggling with myself, trying to make myself small
enough to follow this kind of a mind around, and now the scales are
fallen from my eyes. When I follow An Inductive Scientific Mind now, or
try to follow it through its convolutions of matter-of-fact, its
involutions of logic, its wriggling through axioms, I smile a new smile
and my heart laughs within me. If I miss the point, I am not in a panic,
and if, at the end of the seventeenth platitude that did not need to be
proved, I find I do not know where I am, I thank God.

I know that I am partly unreasonable, and I know that in my chosen
station on the ridge-pole of the world it is useless to criticise those
who do not even believe, probably, that worlds have ridge-poles. It is a
bit hard to get their attention--and I hope the reader will overlook it
if one seems to speak rather loud--from ridge-poles. Oh, ye children of
The Literal! ye most serene Highnesses, ye archangels of Accuracy, the
Voices of life all challenge you--the world around! What are ye, after
all, but pilers-up of matter, truth-stutterers, truth-spellers, sunk in
protoplasm to the tops of your souls? What is it that you are going to
do with us? How many generations of youths do you want? When will souls
be allowed again? When will they be allowed in college?

Well, well, I say to my soul, what does it all come to? Why all this ado
about it one way or the other? Is it not a great, fresh, eager,
boundless world? Does it not roll up out of Darkness with new children
on it, night after night? What does it matter, I say to my soul-a
generation or so--from the ridge-pole of the world? The great Sun comes
round again. It travels over the tops of seas and mountains. Microbes in
their dewdrops, seeds in their winds, stars in their courses, worms in
their apples, answer it, and the hordes of the ants in their ant-hills
run before it. And what does it matter after all, under the great Dome,
a few hordes of factmongers more or less, glimmering and wonderless,
crawlers on the bottom of the sea of time, lovers of the ooze of
knowledge, feeling with slow, myopic mouths at Infinite Truth?

But when I see my four faces--the faces of my four special boys, when I
hear the college bells ringing to them, it matters a great deal. My soul
will not wait. What is the ridge-pole of the world? The distance of a
ridge-pole does not count. The extent of a universe does not seem to
make very much difference. The next ten generations do not help very
much on this one. I go forth in my soul. I take hold of the first
scientist I meet--my whole mind pummelling him. "What is it?" I say,
"what is it you are doing with us and with the lives of our children?
What is it you are doing with yourself? Truth is not a Thing. Did you
think it? Truth is not even a Heap of Things. It is a Light. How dare
you mock at inferring? How dare you to think to escape the infinite? You
cannot escape the infinite even by making yourself small enough. It is
written that thou shalt be infinitely small if thou art not infinitely
large. Not to infer is to contradict the very nature of facts. Not to
infer is not to live. It is to cease to be a fact one's self. What is
education if one does not infer? Vacuums rolling around in vacuums.
Atoms cross-examining atoms. And you say you will not guess? Do you need
to be cudgelled with a whole universe to begin to learn to guess? What
is all your science--your boasted science, after all, but more raw
material to make more guesses with? Is not the whole Future Tense an
inference? Is not History--that which has actually happened--a mystery?
You yourself are a mere probability, and God is a generalisation. What
does it profit a man to discover The Inductive Method and to lose his
own soul? What is The Inductive Method? Do you think that all these
scientists who have locked their souls up and a large part of their
bodies, in The Inductive Method, if they had waited to be born by The
Inductive Method, would ever have heard of it? Being born is one
inference and dying is another. Man leaves a wake of infinity after him
wherever he goes, and of course it's where he doesn't go. It's all
infinity--one way or the other."

       *       *       *       *       *

And it came to pass in my dream as I lay on my bed in the night, I
thought I saw Man my brother blinking under the dome of space, infinite
monad that he is: I saw him with a glass in one hand and a Slide of
Infinity in the other, and, in my dream, out of His high heaven God
leaned down to me and said to me, "What is THAT?"

And as I looked I laughed and prayed in my heart, I scarce knew which,
and "Oh, Most Excellent Deity! Who would think it!" I cried. "I do not
know, but I think--_I think_--it is a man, thinking he is studying a
GERM--one tiny particle of inimitable Immensity ogling another!"

And a very pretty sight it is, too, oh Brother Monads--if we do not take
it seriously.

And what we really need next, oh comrades, scientists--each under our
separate stones--is the Laugh Out of Heaven which shall come down and
save us--laugh the roofs of our stones off. Then we shall stretch our
souls with inferences. We shall lie in the great sun and warm ourselves.


VIII

Multiplication Tables

It would seem to be the main trouble with the scientific mind of the
second rank that it overlooks the nature of knowledge in the thirst for
exact knowledge. In an infinite world the better part of the knowledge a
man needs to have does not need to be exact.

These things being as they are, it would seem that the art of reading
books through their backs is an equally necessary art to a great
scientist and to a great poet. If it is necessary to great scientists
and to great poets it is all the more necessary to small ones, and to
the rest of us. It is the only way, indeed, in which an immortal human
being of any kind can get what he deserves to have to live his life
with--a whole cross-section of the universe. A gentleman and a scholar
will take nothing less.

If a man is to get his cross-section of the universe, his natural share
in it, he can only get it by living in the qualities of things instead
of the quantities; by avoiding duplicate facts, duplicate persons, and
principles; by using the multiplication table in knowledge (inference)
instead of adding everything up, by taking all things in this world
(except his specialty) through their spirits and essences, and, in
general, by reading books through their backs.

The problem of cultivating these powers in a man, when reduced to its
simplest terms, is reduced to the problem of cultivating his imagination
or organ of not needing to be told things.

However much a man may know about wise reading and about the principles
of economy in knowledge, in an infinite world the measure of his
knowledge is bound to be determined, in the long run, by the capacity of
his organ of not needing to be told things--of reading books through
their backs.




II--On Reading for Principles


I

On Changing One's Conscience

We were sitting by my fireplace--several of our club. I had just been
reading out loud a little thing of my own. I have forgotten the title.
It was something about Books that Other People ought to Read, I think. I
stopped rather suddenly, rather more suddenly than anybody had hoped. At
least nobody had thought what he ought to say about it. And I saw that
the company, after a sort of general, vague air of having exclaimed
properly, was settling back into the usual helpless silence one
expects--after the appearance of an idea at clubs.

"Why doesn't somebody say something?" I said.

P. G. S. of M.: "We are thinking."

"Oh," I said. I tried to feel grateful. But everybody kept waiting.

I was a good deal embarrassed and was getting reckless and was about to
make the very serious mistake, in a club, of seeing if I could not
rescue one idea by going out after it with another, when The Mysterious
Person (who is the only man in our club whose mind ever really comes
over and plays in my yard) in the goodness of his heart spoke up. "I
have not heard anything in a long time," he began (the club looked at
him rather anxiously), "which has done--which has made me feel--less
ashamed of myself than this paper. I----"

It seemed to me that this was not exactly a fortunate remark. I said I
didn't doubt I could do a lot of good that way, probably, if I wanted
to--going around the country making people less ashamed of themselves.

"But I don't mean that I feel really ashamed of myself about books I
have not read," said The Mysterious Person. "What I mean is, that I have
a kind of slinking feeling that I ought to--a feeling of being ashamed
for not being ashamed."

I told The M. P. that I thought New England was full of people; just
like him--people with a lot of left-over consciences.

The P. G. S. of M. wanted to know what I meant by that.

I said I thought there were thousands of people--one sees them
everywhere in Massachusetts--fairly intelligent people, people who are
capable of changing their minds about things, but who can't change their
consciences. Their consciences seem to keep hanging on to them, in the
same set way--somehow--with or without their minds. "Some people's
consciences don't seem to notice much, so far as I can see, whether they
have minds connected with them or not." "Don't you know what it is," I
appealed to the P. G. S. of M., "to get everything all fixed up with
your mind and your reason and your soul; that certain things that look
wrong are all right,--the very things of all others that you ought to do
and keep on doing,--and then have your conscience keep right on the same
as it always did--tatting them up against you?"

The P. G. S. of M. said something about not spending very much time
thinking about his conscience.

I said I didn't believe in it, but I thought that if a man had one, it
was apt to trouble him a little off and on--especially if the one he had
was one of these left-over ones. "If you had one of these consciences--I
mean the kind of conscience that pretends to belong to you, and acts as
if it belonged to some one else," I said "one of these dead-frog-leg,
reflex-action consciences, working and twitching away on you day and
night, the way I have, you'd _have_ to think about it sometimes. You'd
get so ashamed of it. You'd feel trifled with so. You'd----"

The P. G. S. of M. said something about not being very much
surprised--over my case. He said that people who changed their minds as
often as I did couldn't reasonably expect consciences spry enough.

His general theory seemed to be that I had a conscience once and wore it
out.

"It's getting to be so with everybody nowadays," he said. "Nobody is
settled. Everything is blown about. We do not respect tradition either
in ourselves or in the life about us. No one listens to the Voice of
Experience."

"There she blows!" I said. I knew it was coming sooner or later. I added
that one of the great inconveniences of life, it seemed to me, was the
Intolerance of Experienced People.


II

On the Intolerance of Experienced People

It is generally assumed by persons who have taken the pains to put
themselves in this very disagreeable class, that people in general--all
other people--are as inexperienced--as they look. If a man speaks on a
subject at all in their presence, they assume he speaks
autobiographically. These people are getting thicker every year. One
can't go anywhere without finding them standing around with a kind of
"How-do-you-know?" and "Did-it-happen-to-you?" air every time a man says
something he knows by--well--by seeing it--perfectly plain seeing it.
One doesn't need to stand up to one's neck in experience, in a perfect
muck of experience, in order to know things, in order to know they are
there. People who are experienced within an inch of their lives,
submerged in experience, until all you can see of them is a tired look,
are always calling out to the man who sees a thing as he is going
by--sees it, I mean, with his mind; sees it without having to put his
feet in it--they are always calling out to him to come back and be with
them, and know life, as they call it, and duck under to Experience. Now,
to say nothing of living with such persons, it is almost impossible to
talk with them. It isn't safe even to philosophise when they are around.
If a man ventures the assertion in their presence that what a woman
loves in a lover is complete subjugation they argue that either he is a
fool and is asserting what he has not experienced, or he is still more
of one and has experienced it. The idea that a man may have several
principles around him that he has not used yet does not occur to them.
The average amateur mother, when she belongs to this type, becomes a
perfect bigot toward a maiden aunt who advances, perhaps, some harmless
little Froebel idea. She swears by the shibboleth of experience, and
every new baby she has makes her more disagreeable to people who have
not had babies. The only way to get acquainted with her is to have a
baby. She assumes that a motherless woman has a motherless mind. The
idea that a rich and bountiful womanhood, which is saving its motherhood
up, which is free from the absorption and the haste, keenly observant
and sympathetic, may come to a kind of motherly insight, distinctly the
result of not being experienced, does not occur to her. The art of
getting the result--the spirit of experience, without paying all the
cost of the experience itself--needs a good word spoken for it nowadays.
Some one has yet to point out the value and power of what might be
called The Maiden-Aunt Attitude toward Life. The world has had thousands
of experienced young mothers for thousands of years--experienced out of
their wits--piled up with experiences they don't know anything about;
but, in the meantime, the most important contribution to the bringing-up
of children in the world that has ever been known--the kindergarten--was
thought of in the first place by a man who was never a mother, and has
been developed entirely in the years that have followed since by maiden
aunts.

The spiritual power and manifoldness and largeness which is the most
informing quality of a really cultivated man comes from a certain
refinement in him, a gift of knowing by tasting. He seems to have
touched the spirits of a thousand experiences we know he never has had,
and they seem to have left the souls of sorrows and joys in him. He
lives in a kind of beautiful magnetic fellowship with all real life in
the world. This is only possible by a sort of unconscious economy in the
man's nature, a gift of not having to experience things.

Avoiding experience is one of the great creative arts of life. We shall
have enough before we die. It is forced upon us. We cannot even select
it, most of it. But, in so far as we can select it,--in one's reading,
for instance,--it behooves a man to avoid experience. He at least wants
to avoid experience enough to have time to stop and think about the
experience he has; to be sure he is getting as much out of his
experience as it is worth.


III

On Having One's Experience Done Out

"But how can one avoid an experience?"

By heading it off with a principle. Principles are a lot of other
people's experiences, in a convenient form a man can carry around with
him, to keep off his own experiences with.

No other rule for economising knowledge can quite take the place, it
seems to me, of reading for principles. It economises for a man both
ways at once. It not only makes it possible for a man to have the whole
human race working out his life for him, instead of having to do it all
himself, but it makes it possible for him to read anything he likes, to
get something out of almost anything he does not like, which he is
obliged to read. If a man has a habit of reading for principles, for the
law behind everything, he cannot miss it. He cannot help learning
things, even from people who don't know them.

The other evening when The P. G. S. of M. came into my study, he saw the
morning paper lying unopened on the settle by the fireplace.

"Haven't you read this yet?" he said.

"No, not to-day."

"Where are you, anyway? Why not?"

I said I hadn't felt up to it yet, didn't feel profound
enough--something to that effect.

The P. G. S. of M. thinks a newspaper should be read in ten minutes. He
looked over at me with a sort of slow, pitying, Boston-Public-Library
expression he has sometimes.

I behaved as well as I could--took no notice for a minute.

"The fact is, I have changed," I said, "about papers and some things. I
have times of thinking I'm improved considerably," I added recklessly.

Still the same pained Boston-Public-Library expression--only turned on a
little harder.

"Seems to me," I said, "when a man can't feel superior to other people
in this world, he might at least be allowed the privilege of feeling
superior to himself once in a while--spells of it."

He intimated that the trouble with me was that I wanted both. I admitted
that I had cravings for both. I said I thought I'd be a little easier to
get along with, if they were more satisfied.

He intimated that I was easier to get along with than I ought to be, or
than I seemed to think I was. He did not put it in so many words. The P.
G. S. of M. never says anything that can be got hold of and answered.
Finally I determined to answer him whether he had said anything or not.

"Well," I said, "I may feel superior to other people sometimes. I may
even feel superior to myself, but I haven't got to the point where I
feel superior to a newspaper--to a whole world at once. I don't try to
read it in ten minutes. I don't try to make a whole day of a whole
world, a foot-note to my oatmeal mush! I don't treat the whole human
race, trooping past my breakfast, as a parenthesis in my own mind. I
don't try to read a great, serious, boundless thing like a daily
newspaper, unfolded out of starlight, gleaner of a thousand sunsets
around a world, and talk at the same time. I don't say, 'There's nothing
in it,' interrupt a planet to chew my food, throw a planet on the floor
and look for my hat.... Nations lunging through space to say
good-morning to me, continents flashed around my thoughts, seas for the
boundaries of my day's delight ... the great God shining over all! And
may He preserve me from ever reading a newspaper in ten minutes!"

I have spent as much time as any one, I think, in my day, first and
last, in feeling superior to newspapers. I can remember when I used to
enjoy it very much--the feeling, I mean. I have spent whole half-days at
it, going up and down columns, thinking they were not good enough for
me.

Now when I take up a morning paper, half-dread, half-delight, I take it
up softly. My whole being trembles in the balance before it. The whole
procession of my soul, shabby, loveless, provincial, tawdry, is passed
in review before it. It is the grandstand of the world. The vast and
awful Roll-Call of the things I ought to be--the things I ought to
love--in the great world voice sweeps over me. It reaches its way
through all my thoughts, through the minutes of my days. "Where is thy
soul? Oh, where is thy soul?" the morning paper, up and down its
columns, calls to me. There are days that I ache with the echo of it.
There are days when I dare not read it until the night. Then the voice
that is in it grows gentle with the darkness, it may be, and is stilled
with sleep.


IV

On Reading a Newspaper in Ten Minutes

I am not saying it does not take a very intelligent man to read a
newspaper in ten minutes--squeeze a planet at breakfast and drop it. I
think it does. But I am inclined to think that the intelligent man who
reads a newspaper in ten minutes is exactly the same kind of intelligent
man who could spend a week reading it if he wanted to, and not waste a
minute. And he might want to. He simply reads a newspaper as he likes.
He is not confined to one way. He does not read it in ten minutes
because he has a mere ten-minute mind, but because he merely has the ten
minutes. Rapid reading and slow reading are both based, with such a man,
on appreciation of the paper--and not upon a narrow, literary,
Boston-Public-Library feeling of being superior to it.

The value of reading-matter, like other matter, depends on what a man
does with it. All that one needs in order not to waste time in general
reading is a large, complete set of principles to stow things away in.
Nothing really needs to be wasted. If one knows where everything belongs
in one's mind--or tries to,--if one takes the trouble to put it there,
reading a newspaper is one of the most colossal, tremendous, and
boundless acts that can be performed by any one in the whole course of a
human life.

If there's any place where a man needs to have all his wits about him,
to put things into,--if there's any place where the next three inches
can demand as much of a man as a newspaper, where is it? The moment he
opens it he lays his soul open and exposes himself to all sides of the
world in a second,--to several thousand years of a world at once.

A book is a comparatively safe, unintelligent place for a mind to be in.
There are at least four walls to it--a few scantlings over one,
protecting one from all space. A man has at least some remotest idea of
where he is, of what may drop on him, in a book. It may tax his capacity
of stowing things away. But he always has notice--almost always. It sees
that he has time and room. It has more conveniences for fixing things.
The author is always there besides, a kind of valet to anybody, to help
people along pleasantly, to anticipate their wants. It's what an author
is for. One expects it.

But a man finds it is different in a morning paper, rolled out of dreams
and sleep into it,--empty, helpless before a day, all the telegraph
machines of the world thumping all the night, clicked into one's
thoughts before one thinks--no man really has room in him to read a
morning paper. No man's soul is athletic or swift enough.... Nations in
a sentence.... Thousands of years in a minute, philosophies, religions,
legislatures, paleozoics, church socials, side by side; stars and
gossip, fools, heroes, comets--infinity on parade, and over the
precipice of the next paragraph, head-long--who knows what!

Reading a morning paper is one of the supreme acts of presence of mind
in a human life.


V

General Information

"But what is going to become of us?" some one says, "if a man has to go
through 'the supreme act of presence of mind in a whole human life,'
every morning--and every morning before he goes to business? It takes as
much presence of mind as most men have, mornings, barely to get up."

Well, of course, I admit, if a man's going to read a newspaper to toe
the line of all his convictions; if he insists on taking the newspaper
as a kind of this-morning's junction of all knowledge, he will have to
expect to be a rather anxious person. One could hardly get one paper
really read through in this way in one's whole life. If a man is always
going to read the news of the globe in such a serious, sensitive,
suggestive, improving, Atlas-like fashion, it would be better he had
never learned to read at all. At all events, if it's a plain question
between a man's devouring his paper or letting his paper devour him, of
course the only way to do is to begin the day by reading something else,
or by reading it in ten minutes and forgetting it in ten more. One would
certainly rather be headlong--a mere heedless, superficial globe-trotter
with one's mind, than not to have any mind--to be wiped out at one's
breakfast table, to be soaked up into infinity every morning, to be
drawn off, evaporated into all knowledge, to begin one's day scattered
around the edges of all the world. One would do almost anything to avoid
this. And it is what always happens if one reads for principles
pell-mell.

All that I am claiming for reading for principles is, that if one reads
for principles, one really cannot miss it in reading. There is always
something there, and a man who treats a newspaper as if it were not good
enough for him falls short of himself.

The same is true of desultory reading so-called, of the habit of general
information, and of the habit of going about noticing things--noticing
things over one's shoulder.

I am inclined to think that desultory reading is as good if not better
for a man than any other reading he can do, if he organises it--has
habitual principles and swift channels of thought to pour it into. I do
not think it is at all unlikely from such peeps as we common mortals get
into the minds of men of genius, that their desultory reading (in the
fine strenuous sense) has been the making of them. The intensely
suggestive habit of thought, the prehensile power in a mind, the power
of grasping wide-apart facts and impressions, of putting them into
prompt handfuls, where anything can be done with them that one likes,
could not possibly be cultivated to better advantage than by the
practice of masterful and regular desultory reading.

Certainly the one compelling trait in a work of genius, whether in
music, painting, or literature, the trait of untraceableness, the
semi-miraculous look, the feeling things give us sometimes, in a great
work of art, of being at once impossible together, and inevitable
together,--has its most natural background in what would seem at first
probably, to most minds, incidental or accidental habits of observation.

One always knows a work of art of the second rank by the fact that one
can place one's hand on big blocks of material in it almost everywhere,
material which has been taken bodily and moved over from certain places.
And one always knows a work of art of the first rank by the fact that it
is absolutely defiant and elusive. There is a sense of infinity--a
gathered-from-everywhere sense in it--of things which belong and have
always belonged side by side and exactly where they are put, but which
no one had put there.

It would be hard to think of any intellectual or spiritual habit more
likely to give a man a bi-sexual or at least a cross-fertilising mind,
than the habit of masterful, wilful, elemental, desultory reading. The
amount of desultory reading a mind can do, and do triumphantly, may be
said to be perhaps the supreme test of the actual energy of the mind, of
the vital heat in it, of its melting-down power, its power of melting
everything through, and blending everything in, to the great central
essence of life.

No more adequate plan, or, as the architects call it, no better
elevation for a man could possibly be found than a daily newspaper of
the higher type. For scope, points of view, topics, directions of
interest, catholicity, many-sidedness, world-wideness, for all the raw
material a large and powerful man must needs be made out of, nothing
could possibly excel a daily newspaper. Plenty of smaller artists have
been made in the world and will be made again in it--hothouse or parlour
artists--men whose work has very little floor-space in it, one- or
two-story men, and there is no denying that they have their place, but
there never has been yet, and there never will be, I venture to say, a
noble or colossal artist or artist of the first rank who shall not have
as many stories in him as a daily newspaper. The immortal is the
universal in a man looming up. If the modern critic who is looking about
in this world of ours for the great artist would look where the small
ones are afraid to go, he would stand a fair chance of finding what he
is looking for. If one were to look about for a general plan, a rough
draft or sketch of the mind of an Immortal, he will find that mind
spread out before him in the interests and passions, the giant sorrows
and delights of his morning paper.

I am not coming out in this chapter to defend morning papers. One might
as well pop up in one's place on this globe, wherever one is on it, and
say a good word for sunrises. What immediately interests me in this
connection is the point that if a man reads for principles in this world
he will have time and take time to be interested in a great many things
in it. The point seems to be that there is nothing too great or too
small for a human brain to carry away with it, if it will have a place
to put it. All one has to do, to get the good of a man, a newspaper, a
book, or any other action, a paragraph, or even the blowing of a wind,
is to lift it over to its principle, see it and delight in it as a part
of the whole, of the eternal, and of the running gear of things. Reading
for principles may make a man seem very slow at first--several years
slower than other people--but as every principle he reads with makes it
possible to avoid at least one experience, and, at the smallest
calculation, a hundred books, he soon catches up. It would be hard to
find a better device for reading books through their backs, for
travelling with one's mind, than the habit of reading for principles. A
principle is a sort of universal car-coupling. One can be joined to any
train of thought in all Christendom with it, and rolled in luxury around
the world in the private car of one's own mind.

But it is not so much as a luxury as a convenience that reading for
principles appeals to a vigorous mind. It is the short-cut to knowledge.
The man who is once started in reading for principles is not long in
distancing the rest of us, because all the reading that he does goes
into growth,--is saved up in a few handy, prompt generalisations. His
whole being becomes alert and supple. He has the under-hold in dealing
with nature, grips hold the law of the thing and rules it. He is capable
of far reaches where others go step by step. In every age of the world
of thought he goes about giant-like, lifting worlds with a laugh, doing
with the very playing of his mind work which crowds of other minds
toiling on their crowds of facts could not accomplish. He is only able
to do this by being a master of principles. He has made himself a man
who can handle a principle, a sum-total of a thousand facts as easily as
other men, men with bare scientific minds, can handle one of the facts.
He thinks like a god--not a very difficult thing to do. Any man can do
it after thirty or forty years, if he gives himself the chance, if he
reads for principles, keeps his imagination--the way Emerson did, for
instance--sound and alive all through. He does not need to deny that the
bare scientific method, the hugging of the outside of a thing, the being
deliberately superficial and literal--the needing to know all of the
facts, is a useful and necessary method at times; but outside of his
specialty he takes the ground that the scientific method is not the
normal method through which a man acquires his knowledge, but a
secondary and useful method for verifying the knowledge he has. He
acquires knowledge through the constant exercise of his mind with
principles. He is full of subtle experiences he never had. He appears to
other minds, perhaps, to go to the truth with a flash, but he probably
does not. He does not have to go to the truth. He has the truth on the
premises right where he can get at it, in its most convenient, most
compact and spiritual form. To write or think or act he has but to
strike down through the impressions, the experiences,--the saved-up
experiences,--of his life, and draw up their principles.

A great deal has been said from time to time among the good of late
about the passing of the sermon as a practical working force. A great
deal has been said among the literary about the passing of the essay.
Much has been said also about the passing of poetry and the passing of
religion in our modern life. It would not be hard to prove that what has
been called, under the pressure of the moment, the passing of religion
and poetry, and of the sermon and the essay, could fairly be traced to
the temporary failure of education, the disappearance in the modern mind
of the power of reading for principles. The very farm-hands of New
England were readers for principles once--men who looked back of
things--philosophers. Philosophers grew like the grass on a thousand
hills. Everybody was a philosopher a generation ago. The temporary
obscuration of religion and poetry and the sermon and the essay at the
present time is largely due to the fact that generalisation has been
trained out of our typical modern minds. We are mobbed with facts. We
are observers of the letter of things rather than of the principles and
spirits of things. The letter has been heaped upon us. Poetry and
religion and the essay and the sermon are all alike, in that they are
addressed to what can be taken for granted in men--to sum-totals of
experience--the power of seeing sum-totals. They are addressed to
generalising minds. The essayist of the highest rank induces conviction
by playing upon the power of generalisation, by arousing the
associations and experiences that have formed the principles of his
reader's mind. He makes his appeal to the philosophic imagination.

It is true that a man may not be infallible in depending upon his
imagination or principle-gathering organ for acquiring knowledge, and in
the nature of things it is subject to correction and verification, but
as a positive, practical, economical working organ in a world as large
as this, an imagination answers the purpose as well as anything. To a
finite man who finds himself in an infinite world it is the one possible
practicable outfit for living in it.

Reading for principles is its most natural gymnasium.


VI

But----

I had finished writing these chapters on the philosophic mind, and was
just reading them over, thinking how true they were, and how valuable
they were for me, and how I must act on them, when I heard a soft
"Pooh!" from somewhere way down in the depths of my being. When I had
stopped and thought, I saw it was my Soul trying to get my attention. "I
do not want you always reading for principles," said my Soul stoutly,
"reading for a philosophic mind. I do not want a philosophic mind on the
premises."

"Very well," I said.

"You do not want one yourself," my Soul said, "you would be bored to
death with one--with a mind that's always reading for principles!"

"I'm not so sure," I said.

"You always are with other people's."

"Well, there's Meakins," I admitted.

"You wouldn't want a Meakins kind of a mind, would you?" (Meakins is
always reading for principles.)

I refused to answer at once. I knew I didn't want Meakins's, but I
wanted to know why. Then I fell to thinking. Hence this chapter.

Meakins has changed, I said to myself. The trouble with him isn't that
he reads for principles, but he is getting so he cannot read for
anything else. What a man really wants, it seems to me, is the use of a
philosophic mind. He wants one where he can get at it, where he can have
all the benefit of it without having to live with it. It's quite another
matter when a man gives his mind up, his own everyday mind--the one he
lives with--lets it be coldly, deliberately philosophised through and
through. It's a kind of disease.

When Meakins visits me now, the morning after he is gone I take a piece
of paper and sum his visit up in a row of propositions. When he came
before five years ago--his visit was summed up in a great desire in me,
a lift, a vow to the universe. He had the same ideas, but they all
glowed out into a man. They came to me as a man and for a man--a free,
emancipated, emancipating, world-loving, world-making man--a man out in
the open, making all the world his comrade. His appeal was personal.

Visiting with him now is like sitting down with a stick or pointer over
you and being compelled to study a map. He doesn't care anything about
me except as one more piece of paper to stamp his map on. And he doesn't
care anything about the world he has the map of, except that it is the
world that goes with his map. When a man gets into the habit of always
reading for principles back of things--back of real, live, particular
things--he becomes inhuman. He forgets the things. Meakins bores people,
because he is becoming inhuman. He treats human beings over and over
again unconsciously, when he meets them, as mere generalisations on
legs. His mind seems a great sea of abstractions--just a few real things
floating palely around in it for illustrations. When I try to rebuke him
for being a mere philosopher or man without hands, he is "setting his
universe in order," he says--making his surveys. He may be living in his
philosophic mind now, breaking out his intellectual roads but he is
going to travel on them later, he explains.

In the meantime I notice one thing about the philosophic mind. It not
only does not do things. It cannot even be talked with. It is not
interested in things in particular. There is something garrulously,
pedagogically unreal about it,--at least there is about Meakins's. You
cannot so much as mention a real or particular thing to Meakins but he
brings out a row of fifteen or twenty principles that go with it, which
his mind has peeked around and found behind it. By the time he has
floated out about fifteen of them--of these principles back of a
thing--you begin to wonder if the thing was there for the principles to
be back of. You hope it wasn't.

As fond as I am of him, I cannot get at him nowadays in a conversation.
He is always just around back of something. He is a ghost. I come home
praying Heaven, every time I see him, not to let me evaporate. He talks
about the future of humanity by the week, but I find he doesn't notice
humanity in particular. You cannot interest him in talking to him about
himself, or even in letting him do his own talking about himself. He is
a mere detail to himself. You are another detail. What you are and what
he is are both mere footnotes to a philosophy. All history is a footnote
to it--or at best a marginal illustration. There is no such thing as
communing with Meakins unless you use (as I do) a torpedo or
battering-ram as a starter. If you let him have his way he sits in his
chair and in his deep, beautiful voice addresses a row of remarks to The
Future in General--the only thing big enough or worth while to talk to.
He sits perfectly motionless (except the whites of his eyes) and talks
deeply and tenderly and instructively to the Next Few Hundred Years--to
posterity, to babes not yet in their mothers' wombs, while his dearest
friends sit by.

If ever there was a man who could take a whole roomful of warm, vital
people, sitting right next to him, pulsing and glowing in their joys and
their sins, and with one single heroic motion of an imperious hand drop
them softly and lovingly over into Fatuity and Oblivion in five minutes
and leave them out of the world before their own eyes, it is Theophilus
Meakins. I try sometimes--but I cannot really do it.

He does not really commune with things or with persons at all. He gets
what he wants out of them. You feel him putting people, when he meets
them, through his philosophy. He makes them over while they wait, into
extracts. A man may keep on afterward living and growing, throbbing and
being, but he does not exist to Meakins except in his bottle. A man
cannot help feeling with Meakins afterward the way milk feels probably,
if it could only express it, when it's been put through one of these
separators, had the cream taken off of it. Half the world is skim-milk
to him. But what does it matter to Meakins? He has them in his
philosophy. He does the same way with things as with people. He puts in
all nature as a parenthesis, and a rather condescending, explanatory one
at that, a symbol, a kind of beckoning, an index-finger to God. He never
notices a tree for itself. A great elm would have to call out to him,
fairly shout at him, right under its arms: "Oh, Theophilus Meakins,
author of _The Habit of Eternity_, author of _The Evolution of the Ego_
look at ME, I also am alive, even as thou art. Canst thou not stop one
moment and be glad with _me_? Have I not a thousand leaves glistening
and glorying in the great sun? Have I not a million roots feeling for
the stored-up light in the ground, reaching up God to me out of the
dark? Have I not"--"It is one of the principles of the flux of society,"
breaks in Theophilus Meakins, "as illustrated in all the processes of
the natural world--the sap of this tree," said he, "for instance,"
brushing the elm-tree off into space, "that the future of mankind
depends and always must depend upon----"

"The flux of society be ----," said I in holy wrath. I stopped him
suddenly, the elm-tree still holding its great arms above us. "Do you
suppose that God," I said, "is in any such small business as to make an
elm-tree like this--like THIS (look at it, man!), and put it on the
earth, have it waving around on it, just to illustrate one of your
sermons? Now, my dear fellow, I'm not going to have you lounging around
in your mind with an elm-tree like this any longer. I want you to come
right over to it," said I, taking hold of him, "and sit down on one of
its roots, and lean up against its trunk and learn something, live with
it a minute--get blessed by it. The flux of society can wait," I said.

Meakins is always tractable enough, when shouted at, or pounded on a
little. We sat down under the tree for quite a while, perfectly still. I
can't say what it did for Meakins. But it helped me--just barely leaning
against the trunk of it helped me, under the circumstances, a great
deal.

No one will believe it, I suppose, but we hadn't gotten any more than
fifteen feet away from the shadow of that tree when "The principles of
the flux of society," said he, "demand----"

"Now, my dear fellow," I said, "there are a lot more elm-trees we really
ought to take in, on this walk. We----"

"I SAY!" said Meakins, his great voice roaring on my little polite,
opposing sentence like surf over a pebble, "that the principles----"

Then I grew wroth. I always do when Meakins treats what I say just as a
pebble to get more roar out of, on the great bleak shore of his
thoughts. "No one says anything!" I cried; "if any one says anything--if
you say another word, my dear fellow, on this walk, I will sing _Old
Hundred_ as loud as I can all the way home."

He promised to be good--after a half-mile or so. I caught him looking at
me, harking back to an old, wonderfully sweet, gentle, human,
understanding smile he has--or used to have before he was a philosopher.

Then he quietly mentioned a real thing and we talked about real things
for four miles.

I remember we sat under the stars that night after the world was folded
up, and asleep, and I think we really felt the stars as we sat
there--not as a roof for theories of the world, but we felt them as
stars--shared the night with them, lit our hearts at them. Then we
silently, happily, at last, both of us, like awkward, wondering boys,
went to bed.




III--Reading Down Through


I

Inside

It is always the same way. I no sooner get a good, pleasant,
interesting, working idea, like this "Reading for Principles," arranged
and moved over, and set up in my mind, than some insinuating,
persistent, concrete human being comes along, works his way in to
illustrate it, and spoils it. Here is Meakins, for instance. I have been
thinking on the other side of my thought every time I have thought of
him. I have no more sympathy than any one with a man who spends all his
time going round and round in his reading and everything else,
swallowing a world up in principles. "Why should a good, live, sensible
man," I feel like saying, "go about in a world like this stowing his
truths into principles, where, half the time, he cannot get at them
himself, and no one else would want to?" Going about swallowing one's
experience up in principles is very well so far as it goes. But it is
far better to go about swallowing up one's principles into one's self.

A man who has lived and read into himself for many years does not need
to read very many books. He has the gist of nine out of ten new books
that are published. He knows, or as good as knows, what is in them, by
taking a long, slow look at his own heart. So does everybody else.


II

On Being Lonely with a Book

The P. G. S. of M. said that as far as he could make out, judging from
the way I talked, my main ambition in the world seemed to be to write a
book that would throw all publishers and libraries out of employment.
"And what will your book amount to, when you get it done?" he said. "If
it's convincing--the way it ought to be--it will merely convince people
they oughtn't to have read it."

"And that's been done before," I said. "Almost any book could do it." I
ventured to add that I thought people grew intelligent enough in one of
my books--even in the first two or three chapters, not to read the rest
of it. I said all I hoped to accomplish was to get people to treat other
men's books in the same way that they treated mine--treat everything
that way--take things for granted, get the spirit of a thing, then go
out and gloat on it, do something with it, live with it--anything but
this going on page after page using the spirit of a thing all up,
reading with it.

"Reading down through in a book seems a great deal more important to me
than merely reading the book through."

I expected that The P. G. S. of M. would ask me what I meant by reading
down through, but he didn't. He was still at large, worrying about the
world. "I have no patience with it--your idea," he broke out. "It's all
in the air. It's impractical enough, anyway, just as an idea, and it's
all the more impractical when it's carried out. So far as I can see, at
the rate you're carrying on," said The P. G. S. of M., "what with
improving the world and all with your book, there isn't going to be
anything but You and your Book left."

"Might be worse," I said. "What one wants in a book after the first
three or four chapters, or in a world either, it seems to me, is not its
facts merely, nor its principles, but one's self--one's real relation of
one's real self, I mean, to some real fact. If worst came to worst and I
had to be left all alone, I'd rather be alone with myself, I think, than
with anybody. It's a deal better than being lonely the way we all are
nowadays--with such a lot of other people crowding round, that one has
to be lonely with, and books and newspapers and things besides. One has
to be lonely so much in civilisation, there are so many things and
persons that insist on one's coming over and being lonely with them,
that being lonely in a perfectly plain way, all by one's self--the very
thought of it seems to me, comparatively speaking, a relief. It's not
what it ought to be, but it's something."

I feel the same way about being lonely with a book. I find that the only
way to keep from being lonely in a book--that is, to keep from being
crowded on to the outside of it, after the first three or four
chapters--is to read the first three or four chapters all over
again--read them down through. I have to get hold of my principles in
them, and then I have to work over my personal relation to them. When I
make sure of that, when I make sure of my personal relation to the
author, and to his ideas, and there is a fairly acquainted feeling with
both of us, then I can go on reading for all I am worth--or all he is
worth anyway, whichever breaks down first--and no more said about it.
Everything means something to everybody when one reads down through. The
only way an author and reader can keep from wasting each other's time,
it seems to me, at least from having spells of wasting it, is to begin
by reading down through.


III

Keeping Other Minds Off

What I really mean by reading down through in a book, I suppose, is
reading down through in it to myself. I dare say this does not seem
worthy. It is quite possible, too, that there is no real defence for
it--I mean for my being so much interested in myself in the middle of
other people's books. My theory about it is that the most important
thing in this world for a man's life is his being original in it. Being
original consists, I take it, not in being different, but in being
honest--really having something in one's own inner experience which one
has anyway, and which one knows one has, and which one has all for one's
own, whether any one else has ever had it or not. Being original
consists in making over everything one sees and reads, into one's self.

Making over what one reads into one's self may be said to be the only
way to have a really safe place for knowledge. If a man takes his
knowledge and works it all over into what he is, sense and spirit, it
may cost more at first, but it is more economical in the long run,
because none of it can possibly be lost. And it can all be used on the
place.

I do not know how it is with others nowadays, but I find that this
feeling of originality in an experience, in my own case, is exceedingly
hard to keep. It has to be struggled for.

Of course, one has a theory in a general way that one does not want an
original mind if he has to get it by keeping other people's minds off,
and yet there is a certain sense in which if he does not do it at
certain times--have regular periods of keeping other people's minds off,
he would lose for life the power of ever finding his own under them.
Most men one knows nowadays, if they were to spend all the rest of their
lives peeling other men's minds off, would not get down to their own
before they died. It seems to be supposed that what a mind is for--at
least in civilisation--is to have other men's minds on top of it.

It is the same way in books--at least I find it so myself when I get to
reading in a book, reading so fast I cannot stop in it. Nearly all
books, especially the good ones, have a way of overtaking a man--riding
his originality down. It seems to be assumed that if a man ever did get
down to his own mind by accident, whether in a book or anywhere else, he
would not know what to do with it.

And this is not an unreasonable assumption. Even the man who gets down
to his mind regularly hardly knows what to do with it part of the time.
But it makes having a mind interesting. There's a kind of pleasant,
lusty feeling in it--a feeling of reality and honesty that makes having
a mind--even merely one's own mind--seem almost respectable.


IV

Reading Backwards

Sir Joshua Reynolds gives the precedence to the Outside, to authority
instead of originality, in the early stages of education, because when
he went to Italy he met the greatest experience of his life. He found
that much of his originality was wrong.

If Sir Joshua Reynolds had gone to Italy earlier he would never have
been heard of except as a copyist, lecturer, or colour-commentator. The
real value of Sir Joshua Reynolds's "Discourses on Art" is the man in
spite of the lecturer. What the man stands for is,--Be original. Get
headway of personal experience, some power of self-teaching. Then when
you have something to work on, organs that act and react on what is
presented to them, confront your Italy--whatever it may be--and the
Past, and give yourself over to it. The result is paradox and power, a
receptive, creative man, an obeying and commanding, but self-centred and
self-poised man, world-open, subject to the whole world and yet who has
a whole world subject to him, either by turns or at will.

What Sir Joshua conveys to his pupils is not his art, but his mere
humility about his art--_i. e._, his most belated experience, his
finishing touch, as an artist.

The result is that having accidentally received an ideal education,
having begun his education properly, with self-command, he completed his
career with a kind of Reynoldsocracy--a complacent, teachery,
levelling-down command of others. While Sir Joshua Reynolds was an
artist, he became one because he did not follow his own advice. The fact
that he would have followed it if he had had a chance shows what his art
shows, namely, that he did not intend to be any more original than he
could help. It is interesting, however, that having acquired the blemish
of originality in early youth, he never could get rid of enough of it
before he died, not to be tolerated among the immortals.

His career is in many ways the most striking possible illustration of
what can be brought to pass when a human being without genius is by
accident brought up with the same principles and order of education and
training that men of genius have--education by one's self; education by
others, under the direction of one's self. Sir Joshua Reynolds would
have been incapable of education by others under direction of himself,
if he had not been kept ignorant and creative and English, long enough
to get a good start with himself before he went down to Italy to run a
race with Five Hundred Years. In his naive, almost desperate shame over
the plight of being almost a genius, he overlooks this, but his fame is
based upon it. He devoted his old age to trying to train young men into
artists by teaching them to despise their youth in their youth, because,
when he was an old man, he despised his.

What seems to be necessary is to strike a balance, in one's reading.

It's all well enough; indeed, there's nothing better than having one's
originality ridden down. One wants it ridden down half the time. The
trouble comes in making provision for catching up, for getting one's
breath after it. I have found, for instance, that it has become
absolutely necessary so far as I am concerned, if I am to keep my little
mind's start in the world, to begin the day by not reading the newspaper
in the morning. Unless I can get headway--some thought or act or cry or
joy of my own--something that is definitely in my own direction first,
there seems to be no hope for me all day long. Most people, I know,
would not agree to this. They like to take a swig of all-space, a glance
at everybody while the world goes round, before they settle down to
their own little motor on it. They like to feel that the world is all
right before they go ahead. So would I, but I have tried it again--and
again. The world is too much for me in the morning. My own little motor
comes to a complete stop. I simply want to watch the Big One going round
and round. I cannot seem to stop somehow--begin puttering once more with
my Little One. If I begin at all, I have to begin at once. In my heart I
feel the Big One over me all the while, circling over me, blessing me.
But I keep from noticing. I know no other way, and drive on. The world
is getting to be--has to be--to me a purely afternoon or evening affair.
I have a world of my own for morning use. I hold to it, one way or the
other, with a cheerful smile or like grim death, until the clock says
twelve and the sun turns the corner, and the book drops. It does not
seem to make very much difference what kind of a world I am in, or what
is going on in it, so that it is all my own, and the only way I know to
do, is to say or read or write or use the things first in it which make
it my own the most. The one thing I want in the morning is to let my
soul light its own light, appropriate some one thing, glow it through
with itself. When I have satisfied the hunger for making a bit of the
great world over into my world, I am ready for the world as a
world--streets and newspapers of it,--silent and looking, in it, until
sleep falls.

It is because men lie down under it, allow themselves to be rolled over
by it, that the modern newspaper, against its will, has become the great
distracting machine of modern times. As I live and look about me,
everywhere I find a great running to and fro of editors across the still
earth. Every editor has his herd, is a kind of bell-wether, has a great
paper herd flocking at his heels. "Is not the world here?" I say, "and
am I not here to look at it? Can I really see a world better by joining
a Cook's Excursion on it, sweeping round the earth in a column, seeing
everything in a column, looking over the shoulder of a crowd?" Sometimes
it seems as if the whole modern, reading, book-and-paper outfit were
simply a huge, crunching Mass-Machine--a machine for arranging every
man's mind from the outside.

Originality may be said to depend upon a balance of two things, the
power of being interested in other people's minds and the power of being
more interested in one's own. In its last analysis, it is the power a
man's mind has of minding its own business, which, even in another man's
book, makes the book real and absorbing to him. It is the least
compliment one can pay a book. The only honest way to commune with a
real man either in a book or out of it is to do one's own share of
talking. Both the book and the man say better things when talked back
to. In reading a great book one finds it allows for this. In reading a
poor one the only way to make it worth while, to find anything in it, is
to put it there. The most self-respecting course when one finds one's
self in the middle of a poor book is to turn right around in it, and
write it one's self. As has been said by Hoffentotter (in the fourteenth
chapter of his great masterpiece): "If you find that you cannot go on,
gentle reader, in the reading of this book, pray read it backwards."

The original man, the man who insists on keeping the power in a mind of
minding its own business, is much more humble than he looks. All he
feels is, that his mind has been made more convenient to him than to
anybody else and that if anyone is going to use it, he must. It is not a
matter of assuming that one's own mind is superior. A very poor mind, on
the premises, put right in with one's own body, carefully fitted to it,
to one's very nerves and senses, is worth all the other minds in the
world. It may be conceit to believe this, and it may be
self-preservation. But, in any case, keeping up an interest in one's own
mind is excusable. Even the humblest man must admit that the first, the
most economical, the most humble, the most necessary thing for a man to
do in reading in this world (if he can do it) is to keep up an interest
in his own mind.




IV--Reading for Facts


I

Calling the Meeting to Order

Reading for persons makes a man a poet or artist, makes him dramatic
with his mind--puts the world-stage into him.

Reading for principles makes a man a philosopher. Reading for facts
makes a man----

"It doesn't make a man," spoke up the Mysterious Person.

"Oh, yes," I said, "if he reads a few of them--if he takes time to do
something with them--he can make a man out of them, if he wants to, as
well as anything else."

The great trouble with scientific people and others who are always
reading for facts is that they forget what facts are for. They use their
minds as museums. They are like Ole Bill Spear. They take you up into
their garret and point to a bushel-basketful of something and then to
another bushel-basket half-full of some more. Then they say in deep
tones and with solemn faces: "This is the largest collection of burnt
matches in the world."

It's what reading for facts brings a man to, generally--fact for fact's
sake. He lunges along for facts wherever he goes. He cannot stop. All an
outsider can do in such cases, with nine out of ten scientific or
collecting minds, is to watch them sadly in a dull, trance-like,
helpless inertia of facts, sliding on to Ignorance.

What seems to be most wanted in reading for facts in a world as large as
this is some reasonable principle of economy. The great problem of
reading for facts--travelling with one's mind--is the baggage problem.
To have every fact that one needs and to throw away every fact that one
can get along without, is the secret of having a comfortable and
practicable, live, happy mind in modern knowledge--a mind that gets
somewhere--that gets the hearts of things.

The best way to arrange this seems to be to have a sentinel in one's
mind in reading.

Every man finds in his intellectual life, sooner or later, that there
are certain orders and kinds of facts that have a way of coming to him
of their own accord and without being asked. He is half amused sometimes
and half annoyed by them. He has no particular use for them. He dotes on
them some, perhaps, pets them a little--tells them to go away, but they
keep coming back. Apropos of nothing, in the way of everything, they
keep hanging about while he attends to the regular business of his
brain, and say: "Why don't you do something with Me?"

What I would like to be permitted to do in this chapter is to say a good
word for these involuntary, helpless, wistful facts that keep tagging a
man's mind around. I know that I am exposing myself in standing up for
them to the accusation that I have a mere irrelevant, sideways,
intellectually unbusinesslike sort of a mind. I can see my championship
even now being gently but firmly set one side. "It's all of a
piece--this pleasant, yielding way with ideas," people say. "It goes
with the slovenly, lazy, useless, polite state of mind always, and the
general ball-bearing view of life."

It seems to me that if a man has a few involuntary, instinctive facts
about him, facts that fasten themselves on to his thoughts whether he
wants them there or not, facts that keep on working for him of their own
accord, down under the floor of his mind, passing things up, running
invisible errands for him, making short-cuts for him--it seems to me
that if a man has a few facts like this in him, facts that serve him
like the great involuntary servants of Nature, whether they are noticed
or not, he ought to find it worth his while to do something in return,
conduct his life with reference to them. They ought to have the main
chance at him. It seems reasonable also that his reading should be
conducted with reference to them.

It is no mere literary prejudice, and it seems to be a truth for the
scientist as well as for the poet, that the great involuntary facts in a
man's life, the facts he does not select, the facts that select him, the
facts that say to him, "Come thou and live with us, make a human life
out of us that men may know us," are the facts of all others which ought
to have their way sooner or later in the great struggling mass-meeting
of his mind. I have read equally in vain the lives of the great
scientists and the lives of the great artists and makers, if they are
not all alike in this, that certain great facts have been yielded to,
have been made the presiding officers, the organisers of their minds. In
so far as they have been great, no facts have been suppressed and all
facts have been represented; but I doubt if there has ever been a life
of a powerful mind yet in which a few great facts and a great man were
not seen mutually attracted to each other, day and night,--getting
themselves made over into each other, mutually mastering the world.

Certainly, if there is one token rather than another of the great
scientist or poet in distinction from the small scientist or poet, it is
the courage with which he yields himself, makes his whole being
sensitive and free before his instinctive facts, gives himself fearless
up to them, allows them to be the organisers of his mind.

It seems to be the only possible way in reading for facts that the mind
of a man can come to anything; namely, by always having a chairman (and
a few alternates appointed for life) to call the meeting to order.


II

Symbolic Facts

If the meeting is to accomplish anything before it adjourns _sine die_,
everything depends upon the gavel in it, upon there being some power in
it that makes some facts sit down and others stand up, but which sees
that all facts are represented.

In general, the more facts a particular fact can be said to be a
delegate for, the more a particular fact can be said to represent other
facts, the more of the floor it should have. The power of reading for
facts depends upon a man's power to recognise symbolic or sum-total or
senatorial facts and keep all other facts, the general mob or common run
of facts, from interrupting. The amount of knowledge a man is going to
be able to master in the world depends upon the number of facts he knows
how to avoid.

This is where our common scientific training--the manufacturing of small
scientists in the bulk--breaks down. The first thing that is done with a
young man nowadays, if he is to be made into a scientist, is to take
away any last vestige of power his mind may have of avoiding facts.
Everyone has seen it, and yet we know perfectly well when we stop to
think about it that when in the course of his being educated a man's
ability to avoid facts is taken away from him, it soon ceases to make
very much difference whether he is educated or not. He becomes a mere
memory let loose in the universe--goes about remembering everything, hit
or miss. I never see one of these memory-machines going about mowing
things down remembering them, but that it gives me a kind of sad, sudden
feeling of being intelligent. I cannot quite describe the feeling. I am
part sorry and part glad and part ashamed of being glad. It depends upon
what one thinks of, one's own narrow escape or the other man, or the way
of the world. All one can do is to thank God, silently, in some safe
place in one's thoughts, that after all there is a great deal of the
human race--always is--in every generation who by mere circumstance
cannot be educated--bowled over by their memories. Even at the worst
only a few hundred persons can be made over into _reductio-ad-absurdum_
Stanley Halls (that is, study science under pupils of the pupils of
Stanley Hall) and the chances are even now, as bad as things are and are
getting to be, that for several hundred years yet, Man, the Big Brother
of creation, will insist on preserving his special distinction in it,
the thing that has lifted him above the other animals--his inimitable
faculty for forgetting things.


III

Duplicates: A Principle of Economy

I do not suppose that anybody would submit to my being admitted--I was
black-balled before I was born--to the brotherhood of scientists. And
yet it seems to me that there is a certain sense in which I am as
scientific as anyone. It seems to me, for instance, that it is a fairly
scientific thing to do--a fairly matter-of-fact thing--to consider the
actual nature of facts and to act on it. When one considers the actual
nature of facts, the first thing one notices is that there are too many
of them. The second thing one notices about facts is that they are not
so many as they look. They are mostly duplicates. The small scientist
never thinks of this because he never looks at more than one class of
facts, never allows himself to fall into any general, interesting,
fact-comparing habit. The small poet never thinks of it because he never
looks at facts at all. It is thus that it has come to pass that the most
ordinary human being, just living along, the man who has the habit of
general information, is the intellectual superior of the mere scientists
about him or the mere poets. He is superior to the mere poet because he
is interested in knowing facts, and he is superior to the minor
scientist because he does not want to know all of them, or at least if
he does, he never has time to try to, and so keeps on knowing something.

When one considers the actual nature of facts, it is obvious that the
only possible model for a scientist of the first class or a poet of the
first class in this world, is the average man. The only way to be an
extraordinary man, master of more of the universe than any one else, is
to keep out of the two great pits God has made in it, in which The
Educated are thrown away--the science-pit and the poet-pit. The area and
power and value of a man's knowledge depend upon his having such a
boundless interest in facts that he will avoid all facts he knows
already and go on to new ones. The rapidity of a man's education depends
upon his power to scent a duplicate fact afar off and to keep from
stopping and puttering with it. Is not one fact out of a thousand about
a truth as good as the other nine hundred and ninety-nine to enjoy it
with? If there were not any more truths or if there were not so many
more things to enjoy in this world than one had time for, it would be
different. It would be superficial, I admit, not to climb down into a
well and collect some more of the same facts about it, or not to crawl
under a stone somewhere and know what we know already--a little harder.
But as it is--well, it does seem to me that when a man has collected one
good, representative fact about a thing, or at most two, it is about
time to move on and enjoy some of the others. There is not a man living
dull enough, it seems to me, to make it worth while to do any other way.
There is not a man living who can afford, in a world made as this one
is, to know any more facts than he can help. Are not facts plenty enough
in the world? Are they not scattered everywhere? And there are not men
enough to go around. Let us take our one fact apiece and be off, and be
men with it. There is always one fact about everything which is the
spirit of all the rest, the fact a man was intended to know and to go on
his way rejoicing with. It may be superficial withal and merely
spiritual, but if there is anything worth while in this world to me, it
is not to miss any part of being a man in it that any other man has had.
I do not want to know what every man knows, but I do want to get the
best of what he knows and live every day with it. Oh, to take all
knowledge for one's province, to have rights with all facts, to be naive
and unashamed before the universe, to go forth fearlessly to know God in
it, to make the round of creation before one dies, to share all that has
been shared, to be all that is, to go about in space saying halloa to
one's soul in it, in the stars and in the flowers and in children's
faces, is not this to have lived,--that there should be nothing left out
in a man's life that all the world has had?




V--Reading for Results


I

The Blank Paper Frame of Mind

The P. G. S. of M. read a paper in our club the other day which he
called "Reading for Results." It was followed by a somewhat warm
discussion, in the course of which so many things were said that were
not so that the entire club (before any one knew it) had waked up and
learned something.

The P. G. S. of M. took the general ground that most of the men one
knows nowadays had never learned to read. They read wastefully. Our
common schools and colleges, he thought, ought to teach a young man to
read with a purpose. "When an educated young man takes up a book," he
said, "he should feel that he has some business in it, and attend to
it."

I said I thought young men nowadays read with purposes too much.
Purposes were all they had to read with. "When a man feels that he needs
a purpose in front of him, to go through a book with, when he goes about
in a book looking over the edge of a purpose at everything, the chances
are that he is missing nine tenths of what the book has to give."

The P. G. S. of M. thought that one tenth was enough. He didn't read a
book to get nine tenths of an author. He read it to get the one tenth he
wanted--to find out which it was.

I asked him which tenth of Shakespeare he wanted. He said that sometimes
he wanted one tenth and sometimes another.

"That is just it," I said. "Everybody does. It is at the bottom and has
been at the bottom of the whole Shakespeare nuisance for three hundred
years. Every literary man we have or have had seems to feel obliged
somehow to read Shakespeare in tenths. Generally he thinks he ought to
publish his tenth--make a streak across Shakespeare with his
soul--before he feels literary or satisfied or feels that he has a place
in the world. One hardly knows a man who calls himself really literary,
who reads Shakespeare nowadays except with a purpose, with some little
side-show of his own mind. It is true that there are still some
people--not very many perhaps--but we all know some people who can be
said to understand Shakespeare, who never get so low in their minds as
to have to read him with a purpose; but they are not prominent.

"And yet there is hardly any man who would deny that at best his reading
with a purpose is almost always his more anaemic, official,
unresourceful, reading. It is like putting a small tool to a book and
whittling on it, instead of putting one's whole self to it. One might as
well try to read most of Shakespeare's plays with a screw-driver or with
a wrench as with a purpose. There is no purpose large enough, that one
is likely to find, to connect with them. Shakespeare himself could not
have found one when he wrote them in any small or ordinary sense. The
one possible purpose in producing a work of art--in any age--is to
praise the universe with it, love something with it, talk back to life
with it, and the man who attempts to read what Shakespeare writes with
any smaller or less general, less overflowing purpose than Shakespeare
had in writing it should be advised to do his reading with some smaller,
more carefully fitted author,--one nearer to his size. Of course if one
wants to be a mere authority on Shakespeare or a mere author there is no
denying that one can do it, and do it very well, by reading him with
some purpose--some purpose that is too small to have ever been thought
of before; but if one wants to understand him, get the wild native
flavour and power of him, he must be read in a larger, more vital and
open and resourceful spirit--as a kind of spiritual adventure. Half the
joy of a great man, like any other great event, is that one can well
afford--at least for once--to let one's purposes go.

"To feel one's self lifted out, carried along, if only for a little
time, into some vast stream of consciousness, to feel great spaces
around one's human life, to float out into the universe, to bathe in it,
to taste it with every pore of one's body and all one's soul--this is
the one supreme thing that the reading of a man like William Shakespeare
is for. To interrupt the stream with dams, to make it turn
wheels,--intellectual wheels (mostly pin-wheels and theories) or any
wheels whatever,--is to cut one's self off from the last chance of
knowing the real Shakespeare at all. A man knows Shakespeare in
proportion as he gives himself, in proportion as he lets Shakespeare
make a Shakespeare of him, a little while. As long as he is reading in
the Shakespeare universe his one business in it is to live in it. He may
do no mighty work there,--pile up a commentary or throw on a
footnote,--but he will be a mighty work himself if he let William
Shakespeare work on him some. Before he knows it the universe that
Shakespeare lived in becomes his universe. He feels the might of that
universe being gathered over to him, descending upon him being breathed
into him day and night--to belong to him always.

"The power and effect of a book which is a real work of art seems always
to consist in the way it has of giving the nature of things a chance at
a man, of keeping things open to the sun and air of thought. To those
who cannot help being interested, it is a sad sight to stand by with the
typical modern man--especially a student--and watch him go blundering
about in a great book, cooping it up with purposes."

The P. G. S. of M. remarked somewhere at about this point that it seemed
to him that it made a great difference who an author or reader was. He
suggested that my theory of reading with a not-purpose worked rather
better with Shakespeare than with the _Encyclopedia Britannica_ or the
Hon. Carroll D. Wright, Commissioner of Statistics, or Ella Wheeler
Wilcox.

I admitted that in reading dictionaries, statistics, or mere poets or
mere scientists it was necessary to have a purpose to fall back upon to
justify one's self. And there was no denying that reading for results
was a necessary and natural thing. The trouble seemed to be, that very
few people could be depended on to pick out the right results. Most
people cannot be depended upon to pick out even the right directions in
reading a great book. It has to be left to the author. It could be
categorically proved that the best results in this world, either in
books or in life, had never been attained by men who always insisted on
doing their own steering. The special purpose of a great book is that a
man can stop steering in it, that one can give one's self up to the
undertow, to the cross-current in it. One feels one's self swept out
into the great struggling human stream that flows under life. One comes
to truths and delights at last that no man, though he had a thousand
lives, could steer to. Most of us are not clear-headed or far-sighted
enough to pick out purposes or results in reading. We are always
forgetting how great we are. We do not pick out results--and could not
if we tried--that are big enough.


II

The Usefully Unfinished

The P. G. S. of M. remarked that he thought there was such a thing as
having purposes in reading that were too big. It seemed to him that a
man who spent nearly all his strength when he was reading a book, in
trying to use it to swallow a universe with, must find it monotonous. He
said he had tried reading a great book without any purpose whatever
except its tangents or suggestions, and he claimed that when he read a
great book in that way--the average great book--the monotone of
innumerable possibility wore on him. He wanted to feel that a book was
coming to something, and if he couldn't feel in reading it that the book
was coming to something he wanted to feel at least that he was. He did
not say it in so many words, but he admitted he did not care very much
in reading for what I had spoken of as a "stream of consciousness." He
wanted a nozzle on it.

I asked him at this point how he felt in reading certain classics. I
brought out quite a nice little list of them, but I couldn't track him
down to a single feeling he had thought of--had had to think of, all by
himself, on a classic. I found he had all the proper feelings about them
and a lot of well-regulated qualifications besides. He was on his guard.
Finally I asked him if he had read (I am not going to get into trouble
by naming it) a certain contemporary novel under discussion.

He said he had read it. "Great deal of power in it," he said. "But it
doesn't come to anything. I do not see any possible artistic sense," he
said, "in ending a novel like that. It doesn't bring one anywhere."

"Neither does one of Keats's poems," I said, "or Beethoven's _Ninth
Symphony_. The odour of a rose doesn't come to anything--bring one
anywhere. It would be hard to tell what one really gets out of the taste
of roast beef. The sound of the surf on the Atlantic doesn't come to
anything, but hundreds of people travel a long way and live in
one-windowed rooms and rock in somebody else's bedroom rocker, to hear
it, year after year. Millions of dollars are spent in Europe to look at
pictures, but if a man can tell what it is he gets out of a picture in
so many words there is something very wrong with the picture."

The P. G. S. of M. gave an impatient wave of his hand. (To be strictly
accurate, he gave it in the middle of the last paragraph, just before we
came to the Atlantic. The rest is Congressional Record.) And after he
had given the impatient wave of his hand he looked hurt. I accordingly
drew him out. He was still brooding on that novel. He didn't approve of
the heroine.

"What was the matter?" I said; "dying in the last chapter?" (It is one
of those novels in which the heroine takes the liberty of dying, in a
mere paragraph, at the end, and in what always has seemed and always
will, to some people, a rather unsatisfactory and unfinished manner.)

"The moral and spiritual issues of a book ought to be--well, things are
all mixed up. She dies indefinitely."

"Most women do," I said. I asked him how many funerals of women--wives
and mothers--he had been to in the course of his life where he could sit
down and really think that they had died to the point--the way they do
in novels. I didn't see why people should be required by critics and
other authorities, to die to the point in a book more than anywhere
else. It is this shallow, reckless way that readers have of wanting to
have everything pleasant and appropriate when people die in novels which
makes writing a novel nowadays as much as a man's reputation is worth.

The P. G. S. of M. explained that it wasn't exactly the way she died but
it was the way everything was left--left to the imagination.

I said I was sorry for any human being who had lived in a world like
this who didn't leave a good deal to the imagination when he died. The
dullest, most uninteresting man that any one can ever know becomes
interesting in his death. One walks softly down the years of his life,
peering through them. One cannot help loving him a little--stealthily.
One goes out a little way with him on his long journey--feels bound in
with him at last--actually bound in with him (it is like a promise) for
ever. The more one knows about people's lives in this world, the more
indefinitely, the more irrelevantly,--sometimes almost comically, or as
a kind of an aside, or a bit of repartee,--they end them. Suddenly,
sometimes while we laugh or look, they turn upon us, fling their souls
upon the invisible, and are gone. It is like a last wistful haunting
pleasantry--death is--from some of us, a kind of bravado in it--as one
would say, "Oh, well, dying is really after all--having been allowed one
look at a world like this--a small matter."

It is true that most people in most novels, never having been born, do
not really need to die--that is, if they are logical,--and they might as
well die to the point or as the reader likes as in any other way, but if
there is one sign rather than another that a novel belongs to the first
class, it is that the novelist claims all the privileges of the stage of
the world in it. He refuses to write a little parlour of a book and he
sees that his people die the way they live, leaving as much left over to
the imagination as they know how.

That there are many reasons for the habit of reading for results, as it
is called, goes without saying. It also goes without saying--that is, no
one is saying very much about it--that the habit of reading for results,
such as it is, has taken such a grim hold on the modern American mind
that the greatest result of all in reading, the result in a book that
cannot be spoken in it, or even out of it, is being unanimously missed.

The fact seems to need to be emphasised that the novel which gives
itself to one to be breathed and lived, the novel which leaves a man
with something that he must finish himself, with something he must do
and be, is the one which "gets a man somewhere" most of all. It is the
one which ends the most definitely and practically.

When a novel, instead of being hewn out, finished, and decorated by the
author,--added as one more monument or tomb of itself in a man's
memory,--becomes a growing, living daily thing to him, the wondering,
unfinished events of it, and the unfinished people of it, flocking out
to him, interpreting for him the still unfinished events and all the
dear unfinished people that jostle in his own life,--it is a great
novel.

It seems to need to be recalled that the one possible object of a human
being's life in a novel (as out of it) is to be loved. This is definite
enough. It is the novel in which the heroine looks finished that does
not come to anything. I always feel a little grieved and frustrated--as
if human nature had been blasphemed a little in my presence--if a novel
finishes its people or thinks it can. It is a small novel which finishes
love--and lays it away; which makes me love say one brave woman or
mother in a book, and close her away for ever. The greater novel makes
me love one woman in a book in such a way that I go about through all
the world seeking for her--knowing and loving a thousand women through
her. I feel the secret of their faces--through her--flickering by me on
the street. This intangible result, this eternal flash of a life upon
life is all that reading is for. It is practical because it is eternal
and cannot be wasted and because it is for ever to the point.

Life is greater than art and art is great only in so far as it proves
that life is greater than art, interprets and intensifies life and the
power to taste life--makes us live wider and deeper and farther in our
seventy years.


III

Athletics

"The world is full," Ellery Charming used to say, "of fools who get
a-going and never stop. Set them off on another tack, and they are
half-cured." There are grave reasons to believe that, if an archangel
were to come to this earth and select a profession on it, instead of
taking up some splendid, serious, dignified calling he would devote
himself to a comparatively small and humble-looking career--that of
jogging people's minds. This might not seem at first sight to be a
sufficiently large thing for an archangel to do, but if it were to be
done at all (those who have tried it think) it would take an archangel
to do it.

The only possible practical or businesslike substitute one can think of
in modern life for an archangel would have to be an Institution of some
kind. Some huge, pleasant Mutual Association for Jogging People's Minds
might do a little something perhaps, but it would not be very thorough.
The people who need it most, half or three-quarters of them, the
treadmill-conscientious, dear, rutty, people of this world, would not be
touched by it. What is really wanted, if anything is really to be done
in the way of jogging, is a new day in the week.

I have always thought that there ought to be a day, one day in the week,
to do wrong in--not very wrong, but wrong enough to answer the
purpose--a perfectly irresponsible, delectable, inconsequent day--a
sabbath of whims. There ought to be a sort of sabbath for things that
never get done because they are too good or not good enough. Letters
that ought to be postponed until others are written, letters to friends
that never dun, books that don't bear on anything, books that no one has
asked one to read, calls on unexpecting people, bills that might just as
well wait, tinkering around the house on the wrong things, the right
ones, perfectly helpless, standing by. Sitting with one's feet a little
too high (if possible on one's working desk), being a little foolish and
liking it--making poor puns, enjoying one's bad grammar--a day, in
short, in which, whatever a man is, he rests from himself and play
marbles with his soul.

Most people nowadays--at least the intellectual, so-called, and the
learned above all others--are so far gone under the reading-for-results
theory that they have become mere work-worshippers in books, worshippers
of work which would not need to be performed at all--most of it--by men
with healthy natural or fully exercised spiritual organs. One very
seldom catches a man in the act nowadays of doing any old-fashioned or
important reading. The old idea of reading for athletics instead of
scientifics has almost no provision made for it in the modern
intellectual man's life. He does not seem to know what it is to take his
rest like a gentleman. He lunges between all-science and all-vaudeville,
and plays in his way, it is true, but he never plays with his mind. He
never takes playing with a mind seriously, as one of the great standard
joys and powers and equipments of human life. He does not seem to love
his mind enough to play with it. Above all, he does not see that playing
with a mind (on great subjects, at least) is the only possible way to
make it work. He entirely overlooks the fact, in his little round of
reading for results, that the main thing a book is in a man's hands for
is the man--that it is there to lift him over into a state of being, a
power of action. A man who really reads a book and reads it well, reads
it for moral muscle, spiritual skill, for far-sightedness, for
catholicity--above all for a kind of limberness and suppleness, a swift
sure strength through his whole being. He faces the world with a new
face when he has truly read a true book, and as a bridegroom coming out
of his chamber, he rejoices as a strong man to run a race.

As between reading to heighten one's senses, one's suggestibility, power
of knowing and combining facts, the _multum-in-parvo_ method in reading,
and the _parvum-in-multo_ method, a dogged, accumulating, impotent,
callous reading for results, it is not hard to say which, in the
equipment of the modern scientist, is being overlooked.

It is doubtless true, the common saying of the man of genius in every
age, that "everything is grist to his mill," but it would not be if he
could not grind it fine enough. And he is only able to grind it fine
enough because he makes his reading bring him power as well as grist.
Having provided for energy, stored-up energy for grinding, he guards and
preserves that energy as the most important and culminating thing in his
intellectual life. He insists on making provision for it. He makes ready
solitude for it, blankness, reverie, sleep, silence. He cultivates the
general habit not only of rejecting things, but of keeping out of their
way when necessary, so as not to have to reject them, and he knows the
passion in all times and all places for grinding grist finer instead of
gathering more grist. These are going to be the traits of all the mighty
reading, the reading that achieves, in the twentieth century. The saying
of the man of genius that everything is grist to his mill merely means
that he reads a book athletically, with a magnificent play of power
across it, with an heroic imagination or power of putting together. He
turns everything that comes to him over into its place and force and
meaning in everything else. He reads slowly and organically where others
read with their eyes. He knows what it is to tingle with a book, to
blush and turn pale with it, to read his feet cold. He reads all over,
with his nerves and senses, with his mind and heart. He reads through
the whole tract of his digestive and assimilative nature. To borrow the
Hebrew figure, he reads with his bowels. Instead of reading to maintain
a theory, or a row of facts, he reads to sustain a certain state of
being. The man who has the knack, as some people seem to think it, of
making everything he reads and sees beautiful or vigorous and practical,
does not need to try to do it. He does it because he has a habit of
putting himself in a certain state of being and cannot help doing it. He
does not need to spend a great deal of time in reading for results. He
produces his own results. The less athletic reader, the smaller poet or
scientist, confines himself to reading for results, for ready-made
beauty and ready-made facts, because he is not in condition to do
anything else. The greater poet or scientist is an energy, a
transfigurer, a transmuter of everything into beauty and truth.
Everything having passed through the heat and light of his own being is
fused and seen where it belongs, where God placed it when He made it, in
some relation to everything else.

I fear that I may have come, in bearing down on this point, to another
of the of-course places in this book. It is not just to assume that
because people are not living with a truth that they need to be told it.
It is of little use, when a man has used his truth all up boring people
with it, to try to get them (what is left of the truth and the people)
to do anything about it. But if I may be allowed one page more I would
like to say in the present epidemic of educating for results, just what
a practical education may be said to be.

The indications are that the more a man spends, makes himself able to
spend, a large part of his time, as Whitman did, in standing still and
looking around and loving things, the more practical he is. Even if a
man's life were to serve as a mere guide-board to the universe, it would
supply to all who know him the main thing the universe seems to be
without. But a man who, like Walt Whitman, is more than a guide-board to
the universe, who deliberately takes time to live in the whole of it,
who becomes a part of the universe to all who live always, who makes the
universe human to us--companionable,--such a man may not be able to fix
a latch on a kitchen door, but I can only say for one that if there is a
man who can lift a universe bodily, and set it down in my front yard
where I can feel it helping me do my work all day and guarding my sleep
at night, that man is practical. Who can say he does not "come to
anything"? To have heard it rumoured that such a man has lived, can
live, is a result--the most practical result of all to most of the
workers of the world. A bare fact about such a man is a gospel. Why work
for nothing (that is, with no result) in a universe where you can play
for nothing--and by playing earn everything?

Such a man is not only practical, serving those who know him by merely
being, but he serves all men always. They will not let him go. He
becomes a part of the structure of the world. The generations keep
flocking to him the way they flock to the great sane silent ministries
of the sky and of the earth. Their being drawn to them is their being
drawn to him. The strength of clouds is in him, and the spirit of
falling water, and he knoweth the way of the wind. When a man can be
said by the way he lives his life to have made himself the companion of
his unborn brothers and of God; when he can be said to have made
himself, not a mere scientist, but a younger brother, a real companion
of air, water, fire, mist, and of the great gentle ground beneath his
feet--he has secured a result.




VI--Reading for Feelings


I

The Passion of Truth

Reading resolves itself sooner or later into two elements in the
reader's mind:

1. Tables of facts. (a) Rows of raw fact; (b) Principles, spiritual or
sum-total facts.

2. Feelings about the facts.

But the Man with the Scientific Method, who lives just around the corner
from me, tells me that reading for feelings is quite out of the question
for a scientific mind. It is foreign to the nature of knowledge to want
knowledge for the feelings that go with it. Feelings get in the way.

I find it impossible not to admit that there is a certain force in this,
but I notice that when the average small scientist, the man around the
corner, for instance, says to me what he is always saying, "Science
requires the elimination of feelings,"--says it to me in his usual
chilled-through, ophidian, infallible way,--I never believe it, or at
least I believe it very softly and do not let him know it. But when a
large scientist, a man like Charles Darwin, makes a statement like this,
I believe it as hard, I notice, as if I had made it all up myself. The
statement that science requires the elimination of the feelings is true
or not true, it seems to me, according to the size of the feelings.
Considering what most men's feelings are, a man like Darwin feels that
they had better be eliminated. If a man's feelings are small feelings,
they are in the way in science, as a matter of course. If he has large
noble ones, feelings that match the things that God has made, feelings
that are free and daring, beautiful enough to belong with things that a
God has made, he will have no trouble with them. It is the feelings in a
great scientist which have always fired him into being a man of genius
in his science, instead of a mere tool, or scoop, or human dredge of
truth. All the great scientists show this firing-process down
underneath, in their work. The idea that it is necessary for a
scientific man to give up his human ideal, that it is necessary for him
to be officially brutal, in his relation to nature, to become a
professional nobody in order to get at truth, to make himself over into
matter in order to understand matter, has not had a single great
scientific achievement or conception to its credit. All great insight or
genius in science is a passion of itself, a passion of worshipping real
things. Science is a passion not only in its origin, but in its motive
power and in its end. The real truth seems to be that the scientist of
the greater sort is great, not by having no emotions, but by having
disinterested emotions, by being large enough to have emotions on both
sides and all sides, all held in subjection to the final emotion of
truth. Having a disinterested, fair attitude in truth is not a matter of
having no passions, but of having passions enough to go around. The
temporary idea that a scientist cannot be scientific and emotional at
once is based upon the experience of men who have never had emotions
enough. Men whose emotions are slow and weak, who have one-sided or
wavering emotions, find them inconvenient as a matter of course. The men
who, like Charles Darwin or some larger Browning, have the passion of
disinterestedness are those who are fitted to lead the human race, who
are going to lead it along the paths of space and the footsteps of the
worlds into the Great Presence.

The greatest astronomer or chemist is the man who glows with the joy of
wrestling with God, of putting strength to strength.

To the geologist who goes groping about in stones, his whole life is a
kind of mind-reading of the ground, a passion for getting underneath,
for communing flesh to flesh with a planet. What he feels when he breaks
a bit of rock is the whole round earth--the wonder of it--the great
cinder floating through space. He would all but risk his life or sell
his soul for a bit of lava. He is studying the phrenology of a star. All
the other stars watch him. The feeling of being in a kind of eternal,
invisible, infinite enterprise, of carrying out a world, of tracking a
God, takes possession of him. He may not admit there is a God, in so
many words, but his geology admits it. He devotes his whole life to
appreciating a God, and the God takes the deed for the word, appreciates
his appreciation, whether he does or not. If he says that he does not
believe in a God, he merely means that he does not believe in Calvin's
God, or in the present dapper, familiar little God or the hero of the
sermon last Sunday. All he means by not believing in a God is that his
God has not been represented yet. In the meantime he and his geology go
sternly, implacably on for thousands of years, while churches come and
go. So does his God. His geology is his own ineradicable worship. His
religion, his passion for the all, for communing through the part with
the Whole, is merely called by the name of geology. In so far as a man's
geology is real to him, if he is after anything but a degree in it, or a
thesis or a salary, his geology is an infinite passion taking possession
of him, soul and body, carrying him along with it, sweeping him out with
it into the great workroom, the flame and the glow of the world-shop of
God.

It would not seem necessary to say it if it were not so stoutly denied,
but living as we do, most of us, with a great flock of little scientists
around us, pecking on the infinite most of them, each with his own
little private strut, or blasphemy, bragging of a world without a God,
it does seem as if it were going to be the great strategic event of the
twentieth century, for all men, to get the sciences and the humanities
together once more, if only in our own thoughts, to make ourselves
believe as we must believe, after all, that it is humanity in a
scientist, and not a kind of professional inhumanity in him, which makes
him a scientist in the great sense--a seer of matter. The great
scientist is a man who communes with matter, not around his human
spirit, but through it.

The small scientist, violating nature inside himself to understand it
outside himself, misses the point.

At all events if a man who has locked himself out of his own soul goes
around the world and cannot find God's in it, he does not prove
anything. The man who finds a God proves quite as much. And he has his
God besides.


II

Topical Point of View

If it is true that reading resolves itself sooner or later into two
elements in the reader's mind, tables of facts and feelings about the
facts, that is, rows of raw fact, and spiritualised or related facts,
several things follow. The most important of them is one's definition of
education. The man who can get the greatest amount of feeling out of the
smallest number and the greatest variety of facts is the greatest and
most educated man--comes nearest to living an infinite life. The purpose
of education in books would seem to be to make every man as near to this
great or semi-infinite man as he can be made.

If men were capable of becoming infinite by sitting in a library long
enough, the education-problem would soon take care of itself. There is
no front or side door to the infinite. It is all doors. And if the mere
taking time enough would do it, one could read one's way into the
infinite as easily as if it were anything else. One can hardly miss it.
One could begin anywhere. There would be nothing to do but to proceed at
once to read all the facts and have all the feelings about the facts and
enjoy them forever. The main difficulty one comes to, in being infinite,
is that there is not time, but inasmuch as great men or semi-infinite
men have all had to contend with this same difficulty quite as much as
the rest of us, it would seem that in getting as many of the infinite
facts, and having as many infinite feelings about the facts, as they do,
great men must employ some principle of economy or selection, that
common, that is, artificial men, are apt to overlook.

There seem to be two main principles of economy open to great men and to
all of us, in the acquiring of knowledge. One of these, as has been
suggested, may be called the scientist's principle of economy, and the
other the poet's or artist's. The main difference between the scientific
and the artistic method of selection seems to be that the scientist does
his selecting all at once and when he selects his career, and the artist
makes selecting the entire business of every moment of his life. The
scientist of the average sort begins by partitioning the universe off
into topics. Having selected his topic and walled himself in with it, he
develops it by walling the rest of the universe out. The poet (who is
almost always a specialist also, a special kind of poet), having
selected his specialty, develops it by letting all the universe in. He
spends his time in making his life a cross section of the universe. The
spirit of the whole of it, something of everything in it, is represented
in everything he does. Whatever his specialty may be in poetry,
painting, or literature, he produces an eternal result by massing the
infinite and eternal into the result. He succeeds by bringing the
universe to a point, by accumulating out of all things--himself. It is
the tendency of the scientist to produce results by dividing the
universe and by subdividing himself. Unless he is a very great scientist
he accepts it as the logic of his method that he should do this. His
individual results are small results and he makes himself professedly
small to get them.

All questions with regard to the reading habit narrow themselves down at
last: "Is the Book to be divided for the Man, or is the Man to be
divided for the Book? Shall a man so read as to lose his soul in a
subject, or shall he so read that the subject Loses itself in
him--becomes a part of him?" The main fact about our present education
is that it is the man who is getting lost. And not only is every man
getting lost to himself, but all men are eagerly engaged in getting lost
to each other. The dead level of intelligence, being a dead level in a
literal sense, is a spiritless level--a mere grading down and grading up
of appearances. In all that pertains to real knowledge of the things
that people appear to know, greater heights and depths of difference in
human lives are revealed to-day than in almost any age of the world.
What with our steam-engines (machines for our hands and feet) and our
sciences (machines for our souls) we have arrived at such an
extraordinary division of labour, both of body and mind, that people of
the same classes are farther apart than they used to be in different
classes. Lawyers, for instance, are as different from one another as
they used to be from ministers and doctors. Every new skill we come to
and every new subdivision of skill marks the world off into pigeon-holes
of existence, into huge, hopeless, separate divisions of humanity. We
live in different elements, monsters of the sea wondering at the air,
air-monsters peering curiously down into the sea, sailors on surfaces,
trollers over other people's worlds. We commune with each other with
lines and hooks. Some of us on the rim of the earth spend all our days
quarrelling over bits of the crust of it. Some of us burrow and live in
the ground, and are as workers in mines. The sound of our voices to one
another is as though they were not. They are as the sound of picks
groping in rocks.

The reason that we are not able to produce or even to read a great
literature is that a great book can never be written, in spirit at
least, except to a whole human race. The final question with regard to
every book that comes to a publisher to-day is what mine shall it be
written in, which public shall it burrow for? A book that belongs to a
whole human race, which cannot be classified or damned into smallness,
would only be left by itself on the top of the ground in the sunlight.
The next great book that comes will have to take a long trip, a kind of
drummer's route around life, from mind to mind, and now in one place and
now another be let down through shafts to us. There is no whole human
race. A book with even forty-man power in it goes begging for readers.
The reader with more than one-, two-, or three-man power of reading
scarcely exists. We shall know our great book when it comes by the fact
that crowds of kinds of men will flock to the paragraphs in it, each
kind to its own kind of paragraph. It will hardly be said to reach us,
the book with forty-man power in it, until it has been broken up into
fortieths of itself. When it has been written over again--broken off
into forty books by forty men, none of them on speaking terms with each
other--it shall be recognised in some dim way that it must have been a
great book.

It is the first law of culture, in the highest sense, that it always
begins and ends with the fact that a man is a man. Teaching the fact to
a man that he can be a greater man is the shortest and most practical
way of teaching him other facts. It is only by being a greater man, by
raising his state of being to the _n^th_ power, that he can be made to
see the other facts. The main attribute of the education of the future,
in so far as it obtains to-day, is that it strikes both ways. It strikes
in and makes a man mean something, and having made the man--the main
fact--mean something, it strikes out through the man and makes all other
facts mean something. It makes new facts, and old facts as good as new.
It makes new worlds. All attempts to make a whole world without a single
whole man anywhere to begin one out of are vain attempts. We are going
to have great men again some time, but the science that attempts to
build a civilisation in this twentieth century by subdividing such men
as we already have mocks at itself. The devil is not a specialist and
never will be. He is merely getting everybody else to be, as fast as he
can.

It is safe to say in this present hour of subdivided men and
sub-selected careers that any young man who shall deliberately set out
at the beginning of his life to be interested, at any expense and at all
hazards, in everything, in twenty or thirty years will have the field
entirely to himself. It is true that he will have to run, what every
more vital man has had to run, the supreme risk, the risk of being
either a fool or a seer, a fool if he scatters himself into everything,
a seer if he masses everything into himself. But when he succeeds at
last he will find that for all practical purposes, as things are going
to-day, he will have a monopoly of the universe, of the greatest force
there is in it, the combining and melting and fusing force that brings
all men and all ideas together, making the race one--a force which is
the chief characteristic of every great period and of every great
character that history has known.

It is obvious that whatever may be its dangers, the topical or
scientific point of view in knowledge is one that the human race is not
going to get along without, if it is to be master of the House it lives
in. It is also obvious that the human or artistic, the man-point of view
in knowledge is one that it is not going to get along without, if the
House is to continue to have Men in it.

The question remains, the topical point of view and the artistic point
of view both being necessary, how shall a man contrive in the present
crowding of the world to read with both? Is there any principle in
reading that fuses them both? And if there is, what is it?




VII--Reading the World Together


I

Focusing

There are only a few square inches--of cells and things, no one quite
knows what--on a human face, but a man can see more of the world in
those few inches, and understand more of the meaning of the world in
them, put the world together better there, than in any other few inches
that God has made. Even one or two faces do it, for a man, for most of
us, when we have seen them through and through. Not a face anywhere--no
one has ever seen one that was not a mirror of a whole world, a poor and
twisted one perhaps, but a great one. The man that goes with it may not
know it, may not have much to do with it. While he is waiting to die,
God writes on him; but however it is, every man's face (I cannot help
feeling it when I really look at it) is helplessly great. It is one
man's portrait of the universe as he has found it--his portrait of a
Whole. I have caught myself looking at crowds of faces as if they were
rows of worlds. Is not everything I can know or guess or cry or sing
written on faces? An audience is a kind of universe by itself. I could
pray to one--when once the soul is hushed before it. If there were any
necessity to select one place rather than another, any particular place
to address a God in, I think I would choose an audience. Praying for it
instead of to it is a mere matter of form. I cannot find a face in it
that does not lead to a God, that does not gather a God in for me out of
all space, that is not one of His assembling places. Many and many a
time when heads were being bowed have I caught a face in a congregation
and prayed to it and with it. Every man's face is a kind of prayer he
carries around with him. One can hardly help joining in it. It is
sacrament to look at his face, if only to take sides in it, join with
the God-self in it and help against the others. Whoever or Whatever He
is, up there across all heaven, He is a God to me because He can be
infinitely small or infinitely great as He likes. I will not have a God
that can be shut up into any horizon or shut out of any face. When I
have stood before audiences, have really realised faces, felt the still
and awful thronging of them through my soul, it has seemed to me as if
some great miracle were happening. It's as if--but who shall say
it?--Have you never stood, Gentle Reader, alone at night on the frail
rim of the earth--spread your heart out wide upon the dark, and let it
lie there,--let it be flocked on by stars? It is like that when
Something is lifted and one sees faces. Faces are worlds to me. However
hard I try, I cannot get a man, somehow, any smaller than a world. He is
a world to himself, and God helping me, when I deal with him, he shall
be a world to me. The dignity of a world rests upon him. His face is a
sum-total of the universe. It is made by the passing of the infinite
through his body. It is the mark of all things that are, upon his flesh.

What I like to believe is, that if there is an organic principle of
unity like this in a little human life, if there is some way of summing
up a universe in a man's face, there must be some way of summing it up,
of putting it together in his education. It is this summing a universe
up for one's self, and putting it together for one's self, and for one's
own use, which makes an education in a universe worth while.

In other words, with a symbol as convenient, as near to him as his own
face, a man need not go far in seeking for a principle of unity in
focusing education. A man's face makes it seem not unreasonable to claim
that the principle of unity in all education is the man, that the single
human soul is created to be its own dome of all knowledge. A man's
education may be said to be properly laid out in proportion as it is
laid out the way he lays out his countenance. The method or process by
which a man's countenance is laid out is a kind of daily organic process
of world-swallowing. What a man undertakes in living is the making over
of all phenomena, outer sights and sounds into his own inner ones, the
passing of all outside knowledge through himself. In proportion as he is
being educated he is making all things that are, into his own flesh and
spirit.

When one looks at it in this way it is not too much to say that every
man is a world. He makes the tiny platform of his soul in infinite
space, a stage for worlds to come to, to play their parts on. His soul
is a little All-show, a kind of dainty pantomime of the universe.

       *       *       *       *       *

It seemed that I stood and watched a world awake, the great night still
upbearing me above the flood of the day. I watched it strangely, as a
changed being, the godlikeness and the might of sleep, the spell of the
All upon me. I became as one who saw the earth as it is, in a high noon
of its real self. Hung in its mist of worlds, wrapped in its own breath,
I saw it--a queer little ball of cooled-off fire, it seemed, still and
swift plunging through space. And when I looked close in my heart, I saw
cunning little men on it, nations and things running around on it. And
when I looked still nearer, looked at the lighted side of it, I saw that
each little man was not what I thought--a dot or fleck on the universe.
And I saw that he was a reflection, a serious, wondrous miniature of all
the rest. It all seemed strange to me at first--to a man who lives, as I
do, in a rather weary, laborious, painstaking age--that this should be
so. As I looked at the little man I wondered if it really could be so.
Then, as I looked, the great light flowed all around the little man, and
the little man reflected the great light.

But he did not seem to know it.

I felt like calling out to him--to one of them--telling him out loud to
himself, wrapped away as he was, in his haste and dumbness, not knowing,
and in the funny little noise of cities in the great still light. And so
while the godlikeness and the might of sleep was upon me, I watched him,
longed for him, wanted him for myself. I thought of my great cold,
stretched-out wisdom. How empty and bare it was, this staring at stars
one by one, this taking notes on creation, this slow painful tour of
space, when after all right down there in this little man, I said "Is
not all I can know, or hope to know stowed away and written up?" And
when I thought of this--the blur of sleep still upon me--I could hardly
help reaching down for him, half-patronising him, half-worshipping him,
taking him up to myself, where I could keep him by me, keep him to
consult, watch for the sun, face for the infinite.--"Dear little
fellow!" I said, "my own queer little fellow! my own little Kosmos,
pocket-size!"

I thought how convenient it would be if I could take one in my hand, do
my seeing through it, focus my universe with it. And when the strange
mood left me and I came to, I remembered or thought I remembered that I
was one of Those myself. "Why not be your own little Kosmos-glass?" I
said.

I have been trying it now for some time. It is hard to regulate the
focus of course, and it is not always what it ought to be. It has to be
allowed for some. I do not claim much for it. But it's better, such as
it is, than a sheer bit of Nothing, I think, to look at a universe with.


II

The Human Unit

It matters little that the worlds that are made in this way are very
different in detail or emphasis, that some of them are much smaller and
more twisted than others. The great point, so far as education is
concerned, is for all teachers to realise that every man is a whole
world, that it is possible and natural for every man to be a whole
world. His very body is, and there must be some way for him to have a
whole world in his mind. A being who finds a way of living a world into
his face can find a way of reading a world together. If a man is going
to have unity, read his world together, possess all-in-oneness in
knowledge, he will have to have it the way he has it in his face.

It is superficial to assume, as scientists are apt to do, that in a
world where there are infinite things to know, a man's knowledge must
have unity or can have unity, in and of itself. The moment that all the
different knowledges of a man are passed over or allowed to be passed
over into his personal qualities, into the muscles and traits and organs
and natural expressions of the man, they have unity and force and order
and meaning as a matter of course. Infinite opposites of knowledge,
recluses and separates of knowledge are gathered and can be seen
gathered every day in almost any man, in the glance of his eye, in the
turn of his lip, or in the blow of his fist.

It is not the method of science as science, and it is not in any sense
put forward as the proper method for a man to use in his mere specialty,
but it does seem to be true that if a man wants to know things which he
does not intend to know all of, the best and most scientific way for him
to know such things is to reach out to them and know them through their
human or personal relations. I can only speak for myself, but I have
found for one that the easiest and most thorough, practical way for me
to get the benefit of things I do not know, is to know a man who does.
If he is an educated man, a man who really knows, who has made what he
knows over into himself, I find if I know him that I get it all--the
gist of it. The spirit of his knowledge, its attitude toward life, is
all in the man, and if I really know the man, absorb his nature, drink
deep at his soul, I know what he knows--it seems to me--and what I know
besides. It is true that I cannot express it precisely. He would have to
give the lecture or diagram of it, but I know it--know what it comes to
in life, his life and my life. I can be seen going around living with it
afterwards, any day. His knowledge is summed up in him, his whole world
is read together in him, belongs to him, and he belongs to me. To know a
man is to know what he knows in its best form--the things that have made
the man possible.

A great portrait painter, it has always seemed to me, is a kind of god
in his way--knows everything his sitters know. He knows what every man's
knowledge has done with the man--the best part of it--and makes it
speak. I have never yet found myself looking at great walls of faces
(one painter's faces), found myself walking up and down in Sargent's
soul, without thinking what a great inhabited, trooped-through man he
was--all knowledges flocking to him, showing their faces to him, from
the ends of the earth, emptying their secrets silently out to his brush.
If a man like Sargent has for one of his sitters a great astronomer, an
astronomer who is really great, who knows and absorbs stars, Sargent
absorbs the man, and as a last result the stars in the man, and the man
in Sargent, and the man's stars in Sargent, all look out of the canvas.

It is the spirit that sums up and unifies knowledge. It is a fact to be
reckoned with, in education, that knowledge can be summed up, and that
the best summing up of it is a human face.


III

The Higher Cannibalism

It is not unnatural to claim, therefore, that the most immediate and
important short-cut in knowledge that the comprehensive or educated man
can take comes to him through his human and personal relations. There is
no better way of getting at the spirits of facts, of tracing out
valuable and practical laws or generalisations, than the habit of trying
things on to people in one's mind.

I have always thought that if I ever got discouraged and had to be an
editor, I would do this more practically. As it is, I merely do it with
books. I find no more satisfactory way of reading most books--the way
one has to--through their backs, than reading the few books that one
does read, through persons and for persons and with persons. It is a
great waste of time to read a book alone. One needs room for rows of
one's friends in a book. One book read through the eyes of ten people
has more reading matter in it than ten books read in a common, lazy,
lonesome fashion. One likes to do it, not only because one finds one's
self enjoying a book ten times over, getting ten people's worth out of
it, but because it makes a kind of sitting-room of one's mind, puts a
fire-place in it, and one watches the ten people enjoying one another.

It may be for better and it may be for worse, but I have come to the
point where, if I really care about a book, the last thing I want to do
with it is to sit down in a chair and read it by myself. If I were ever
to get so low in my mind as to try to give advice to a real live author
(any author but a dead one), it would be, "Let there be room for all of
us, O Author, in your book. If I am to read a live, happy, human book,
give me a bench."

I have noticed that getting at truth on most subjects is a dramatic
process rather than an argumentative one. One gets at truth either in a
book or in a conversation not so much by logic as by having different
people speak. If what is wanted is a really comprehensive view of a
subject, two or three rather different men placed in a row and talking
about it, saying what they think about it in a perfectly plain way,
without argument, will do more for it than two or three hundred
syllogisms. A man seems to be the natural or wild form of the syllogism,
which this world has tacitly agreed to adopt. Even when he is a very
poor one he works better with most people than the other kind. If a man
takes a few other men (very different ones), uses them as glasses to see
a truth through, it will make him as wise in a few minutes, with that
truth, as a whole human race.

Knowledge which comes to a man with any particular sweep or scope is, in
the very nature of things, dramatic.

       *       *       *       *       *

[I fear, Gentle Reader, I am nearing a conviction. I feel a certain
constraint coming over me. I always do, when I am nearing a conviction.
I never can be sure how my soul will take it upon itself to act when I
am making the attempt I am making now, to state what is to me an
intensely personal belief, in a general, convincing, or impersonal way.
The embarrassing part of a conviction is that it is so. And when a man
attempts to state a thing as it is, to speak for God or
everybody,--well, it would not be respectable not to be embarrassed a
little--speaking for God. I know perfectly well, sitting here at my
desk, this minute, with this conviction up in my pen, that it is merely
a little thing of my own, that I ought to go on from this point cool and
straight with it. But it is a conviction, and if you find me, Gentle
Reader, in the very next page, swivelling off and speaking for God, I
can only beg that both He and you will forgive me. I solemnly assure you
herewith, that, however it may look, I am merely speaking for myself. I
have thought of having a rubber stamp for this book, a stamp with IT
SEEMS TO ME on it. A good many of these pages need going over with it
afterwards. I do not suppose there is a man living--either I or any
other dogmatist--who would not enjoy more speaking for himself (if
anybody would notice it) than speaking for God. I have a hope that if I
can only hold myself to it on this subject I shall do much better in
speaking for myself, and may speak accidentally for God besides. I leave
it for others to say, but it is hard not to point a little--in a few
places.]

But here is the conviction. As I was going to say, knowledge which comes
to a man with any particular sweep or scope is in the very nature of
things dramatic. If the minds of two men expressing opinions in the dark
could be flashed on a canvas, if there could be such a thing as a
composite photograph of an opinion--a biograph of it,--it would prove to
be, with nine men out of ten, a dissolving view of faces. The unspoken
sides of thought are all dramatic. The palest generalisation a man can
express, if it could be first stretched out into its origins, and then
in its origins could be crowded up and focused, would be found to be a
long unconscious procession of human beings--a murmur of countless
voices. All our knowledge is conceived at first, taken up and organised
in actual men, flashed through the delights of souls and the music of
voices upon our brains. If it is true even in the business of the street
that the greatest efficiency is reached by dealers who mix with the
knowledge of their subject a keen appreciation and mastery of men, it is
still more true of the business of the mind that the greatest, most
natural and comprehensive results are reached through the dramatic or
human insights.

All our knowledge is dead drama. Wisdom is always some old play faded
out, blurred into abstractions. A principle is a wonderful disguised
biograph. The power of Carlyle's _French Revolution_ is that it is a
great spiritual play, a series of pictures and faces.

It was the French Revolution all happening over again to Carlyle, and it
was another French Revolution to every one of his readers. It was
dynamic, an induced current from Paris via Craigenputtock, because it
was dramatic--great abstractions, playing magnificently over great
concretes. Every man in Carlyle's history is a philosophy, and every
abstraction in it a man's face, a beckoning to us. He always seems to me
a kind of colossus of a man stalking across the dark, way out in The
Past, using men as search-lights. He could not help doing his thinking
in persons, and everything he touches is terribly and beautifully alive.
It was because he saw things in persons, that is, in great, rapid,
organised sum-totals of experience and feeling, that he was able to make
so much of so little as a historian, and what is quite as important (at
least in history), so little of so much.

The true criticism of Carlyle as a historian is not a criticism of his
method, that he went about in events and eras doing his seeing and
thinking with persons, but that there were certain sorts of persons that
Carlyle, with his mere lighted-up-brute imagination, could never see
with. They were opaque to him. Every time he lifted one of them up to
see ten years with, or a bevy of events or whatever it might be, he
merely made blots or sputters with them, on his page. But it was his
method that made it a great page, wider and deeper and more splendid
than any of the others, and the blots were always obvious blots, did no
harm there--no historical harm--almost any one could see them, and if
they could not, were there not always plenty of little chilled-through
historians, pattering around after him, tracking them out? But the great
point of Carlyle's method was that he kept his perspective with it.
Never flattened out like other historians, by tables of statistics,
unbewildered by the blur of nobodies, he was able to have a live,
glorious giant's way of writing, a godlike method of handling great
handfuls of events in one hand, of unrolling great stretches of history
with a look, of seeing things and making things seen, in huge, broad,
focussed, vivid human wholes. It was a historical method of treating
great masses, which Thomas Carlyle and Shakespeare and Homer and the Old
Testament all have in common.

The fact that it fails in the letter and with hordes of literal persons,
that it has great gaps of temperament left over in it, is of lesser
weight. The letter passes by (thank Heaven!) in the great girths of time
and space. In all lasting or real history, only the spirit has a right
to live. Temperaments in histories even at the worst are easily allowed
for, filled out with temperaments of other historians--that is, they
ought to be and are going to be if we ever have real historians any
more, historians great enough and alive enough to have temperaments, and
with temperaments great enough to write history the way God does--that
can be read.

History can only be truly written by men who have concepts of history,
and "Every concept," says Hegel, "must be universal, concrete, and
particular, or else it cannot be a concept." That is, it must be
dramatic.

And what is true of a great natural man or man of genius like Carlyle is
equally true of all other natural persons whether men of genius or not.
A stenographic report of all the thoughts of almost any man's brain for
a day would prove to almost any scientist how spiritually organised,
personally conducted a human being's brain is bound to be, almost in
spite of itself--even when it has been educated, artificially numbed and
philosophised. A man may not know the look of the inside of his mind
well enough to formulate or recognise it, but nearly every man's
thinking is done, as a matter of course, either in people, or to people,
or for people, or out of people. It is the way he grows, the way the
world is woven through his being, the way of having life more
abundantly.

It is not at all an exaggeration to say that if Shakespeare had not
created his characters they would have created him. One need not wonder
so very much that Shakespeare grew so masterfully in his later plays and
as the years went on. Such a troop of people as flocked through
Shakespeare's soul would have made a Shakespeare (allowing more time for
it) out of almost anybody.

The essential wonder of Shakespeare, the greatness which has made men
try to make a dozen specialists out of him, is not so very wonderful
when one considers that he was a dramatist. A dramatist cannot help
growing great. At least he has the outfit for it if he wants to. One
hardly wants to be caught giving a world recipe,--a prescription for
being a great man; but it does look sometimes as if the habit of reading
for persons, of being a sort of spiritual cannibal, or man-eater, of
going about through all the world absorbing personalities the way other
men absorb facts, would gradually store up personality in a man, and
make him great--almost inconveniently great, at times, and in spite of
himself. The probabilities seem to be that it was because Shakespeare
instinctively picked out persons in the general scheme of knowledge more
than facts; it was because persons seemed to him, on the whole in every
age, to be the main facts the age was for, summed the most facts up; it
was because they made him see the most facts, helped him to feel and act
on facts, made facts experiences to him, that William Shakespeare became
so supreme and masterful with facts and men both.

To learn how to be _pro tem_. all kinds of men, about all things, to
enjoy their joys in the things, is the greatest and the livest way of
learning the things.

To learn to be a Committee of the Temperaments all by one's self (which
is what Shakespeare did) is at once the method and the end of
education--outside of one's specialty.

There could be no better method of doing this (no method open to
everybody) than the method,--outside of one's specialty,--of reading for
persons and with persons. It makes all one's life a series of spiritual
revelations. It is like having regular habits of being born again, of
having new experiences at will. It mobilises all love and passion and
delight in the world and sends it flowing past one's door.

In this day of immeasurable exercises, why does not some one put in a
word for the good old-fashioned exercise of being born again? It is an
exercise which few men seem to believe in, not even once in a lifetime,
but it is easily the best all-around drill for living, and even for
reading, that can be arranged. And it is not a very difficult exercise
if one knows how, does it regularly enough. It is not at all necessary
to go off to another world to believe in reincarnations, if one
practises on them every day. Women have always seemed to be more
generally in the way of being born again than men, but they have less
scope and sometimes there is a certain feverish smallness about it, and
when men once get started (like Robert Browning in distinction from Mrs.
Browning) they make the method of being born again seem a great
triumphant one. They seem to have a larger repertoire to be born to, and
they go through it more rapidly and justly. At the same time it is true
that nearly all women are more or less familiar with the exercise of
being born again--living _pro tem_. and at will--in others, and only a
few men do it--merely the greatest ones, statesmen, diplomats, editors,
poets, great financiers, and other prophets--all men who live by seeing
more than others have time for. They are found to do their seeing rather
easily on the whole. They do it by the perfectly normal exercise of
being born into other men, looking out of their eyes a minute, whenever
they like. All great power in its first stage is essentially dramatic, a
man-judging, man-illuminating power, the power of guessing what other
people are going to think and do.

When the world points out to the young man, as it is very fond of doing,
that he must learn from experience, what it really means is, that he
must learn from his dramatic drill in human life, his contact with real
persons, his slow, compulsory scrupulous going the rounds of his heart,
putting himself in the place of real persons.

Probably every man who lives, in proportion as he covets power or
knowledge, would like to be (at will at least) a kind of focused
everybody. It is true that in his earlier stages, and in his lesser
moods afterward, he would probably seem to most people a somewhat
teetering person, diffused, chaotic, or contradictory. It could hardly
be helped--with the raw materials of a great man all scattered around in
him, great unaccounted-for insights, idle-looking powers all as yet
unfused. But a man in the long run (and longer the better) is always
worth while, no matter how he looks in the making, and it certainly does
seem reasonable, however bad it may look, that this is the way he is
made, that in proportion as he does his knowing spiritually and
powerfully, he will have to do it dramatically. It sometimes seems as if
knowing, in the best sense, were a kind of rotary-person process, a
being everybody in a row, a state of living symposium. The
interpenetrating, blending-in, digesting period comes in due course, the
time of settling down into himself, and behold the man is made, a
unified, concentrated, individual, universal man--a focused everybody.

This is not quite being a god perhaps, but it is as near to it, on the
whole, as a man can conveniently get.


IV

Spiritual Thrift

But perhaps one of the most interesting things about doing up one's
knowing in persons is that it is not only the most alive, but the most
economical knowledge that can be obtained. On the whole, eleven or
twelve people do very well to know the world with, if one can get a
complete set, if they are different enough, and one knows them down
through. The rest of the people that one sees about, from the point of
view of stretching one's comprehension, one's essential sympathy or
knowledge, do not count very much. They are duplicates--to be respected
and to be loved, of course, but to be kept in the cellar of actual
consciousness. There is no other way to do. Everybody was not intended
to be used by everybody. It is because we think that they were, mostly,
that we have come to our present, modern, heartlessly-cordial fashion of
knowing people--knowing people by parlourfuls--whole parlourfuls at a
time. "Is thy servant a whale?" said my not unsociable soul to me. "Is
one to be fed with one's kind as if they were animalculae, as if they had
to be taken in the bulk if one were really to get something?" It is
heartless and shallow enough. Who is not weary of it? No one knows
anybody nowadays. He merely knows everybody. He falls before The
Reception Room. A reception room is a place where we set people up in
rows like pickets on a fence to know them. Then like the small boy with
a stick, one tap per picket, we run along knowing people. No one comes
in touch with any one. It is getting so that there is hardly any
possible way left in our modern life for knowing people except by
marrying them. One cannot even be sure of that, when one thinks how
married people are being driven about by books and by other people.
Society is a crowd of crowds mutually destroying each other and
literature is a crowd of books all shutting each other up, and the law
seems to be either selection or annihilation, whether in reading or
living. The only way to love everybody in this world seems to be to pick
out a few in it, delegates of everybody, and use these few to read with,
and to love and understand the world with, and to keep close to it, all
one's days.

The higher form one's facts are put in in this world the fewer one
needs. To know twelve extremely different souls utterly, to be able to
borrow them at will, turn them on all knowledge, bring them to bear at a
moment's notice on anything one likes, is to be an educated, masterful
man in the most literal possible sense. Except in mere matters of
physical fact, things which are small enough to be put in encyclopedias
and looked up there, a man with twelve deeply loved or deeply pitied
souls woven into the texture of his being can flash down into almost any
knowledge that he needs, or go out around almost any ignorance that is
in his way, through all the earth. The shortest way for an immortal soul
to read a book is to know and absorb enough other immortal souls, and
get them to help. Any system of education which like our present
prevailing one is so vulgar, so unpsychological, as to overlook the soul
as the organ and method of knowledge, which fails to see that the
knowledge of human souls is itself the method of acquiring all other
knowledge and of combining and utilising it, makes narrow and trivial
and impotent scholars as a matter of course.

Knowledge of human nature and of one's self is the nervous system of
knowledge, the flash and culmination, the final thoroughness of all the
knowledge that is worth knowing and of all ways of knowing it.

It is all a theory, I suppose. I cannot prove anything with it. I dare
say it is true that neither I nor any one else can get, by reading in
this way, what I like to think I am getting, slowly, a cross-section of
the universe. But it is something to get as time goes on a cross-section
of all the human life that is being lived in it. It is something to take
each knowledge that comes, strike all the keys of one's friends on
it--clear the keyboard of space on it. When one really does this,
nothing can happen to one which does not or cannot happen to one in the
way one likes. Events and topics in this world are determined to a large
degree by circumstances--dandelions, stars, politics, bob-whites, acids,
Kant, and domestic science--but personalities, a man's means of seeing
things, are determined only by the limits of his imagination. One's
knowledge of pictures, or of Kant, of bob-whites or acids, cannot be
applied to every conceivable occasion, but nothing can happen in all the
world that one cannot see or feel or delight in, or suffer in, through
Charles Lamb's soul if one has really acquired it. One can be a Charles
Lamb almost anywhere toward almost anything that happens along, or a
Robert Burns or a Socrates or a Heine, or an Amiel or a Dickens or Hugo
or any one, or one can hush one's soul one eternal moment and be the Son
of God. To know a few men, to turn them into one's books, to turn them
into one another, into one's self, to study history with their hearts,
to know all men that live with them, to put them all together and guess
at God with them--it seems to me that knowledge that is as convenient
and penetrating, as easily turned on and off, as much like a light as
this, is well worth having. It would be like taking away a whole world,
if it were taken away from me--the little row of people I do my reading
with. And some of them are supposed to be dead--hundreds of years.

       *       *       *       *       *

But the dramatic principle in education strikes both ways. While it is
true that one does not need a very large outfit of people to do one's
knowing with, if one has the habit of thinking in persons, it is still
more true that one does not need a large outfit of books.

As I sit in my library facing the fire I fancy I hear, sometimes, my
books eating each other up. One by one through the years they have
disappeared from me--only portraits or titles are left. The more
beautiful book absorbs the less and the greater folds itself around the
small. I seldom take down a book that was an enthusiasm once without
discovering that the heart of it has fled away, has stealthily moved
over, while I dreamed, to some other book. Lowell and Whittier are
footnotes scattered about in several volumes, now. J. G. Holland
(Sainte-Beuve of my youth!) is digested by Matthew Arnold and Matthew
Arnold by Walter Pater and Walter Pater by Walt Whitman. Montaigne and
Plato have moved over into Emerson, and Emerson has been distilled
slowly into--forty years. Holmes has dissolved into Charles Lamb and
Thomas Browne. A big volume of Rossetti (whom I oddly knew first) is
lost in a little volume of Keats, and as I sit and wait Ruskin and
Carlyle are going fast into a battered copy on my desk--of the Old
Testament. Once let the dramatic principle get well started in a man's
knowledge and it seems to keep on sending him up new currents the way
his heart does, whether he notices it or not. If a man will leave his
books and his people to themselves, if he will let them do with him and
with one another what they want to do, they all work while he sleeps. If
the spirit of knowledge, the dramatic principle in it, is left free,
knowledge all but comes to a man of itself, cannot help coming, like the
dew on the grass. With enough reading for persons one need not buy very
many books. One allows for unconscious cerebration in books. Books not
only have a way of being read through their backs, but of reading one
another.


V

The City, the Church, and the College

The greatest event of the nineteenth century was that somewhere in it,
at some immense and hidden moment in it, human knowledge passed silently
over from the emphasis of Persons to the emphasis of Things.

I have walked up and down Broadway when the whole street was like a
prayer to me--miles of it--a long dull cry to its little strip of
heaven. I have been on the Elevated--the huge shuttle of the great
city--hour by hour, had my soul woven into New York on it, back and
forth, up and down, until it was hardly a soul at all, a mere ganglion,
a quivering, pressed-in nerve of second-story windows, skies of
clotheslines, pale faces, mist and rumble and dust. "Perhaps I have a
soul," I say. "Perhaps I have not. Has any one a soul?" When I look at
the men I say to myself, "Now I will look at the women," and when I look
at the women I say, "Now I will look at the men." Then I look at shoes.
Men are cheap in New York. Every little man I see stewing along the
street, when I look into his face in my long, slow country way, as if a
hill belonged with him or a scrap of sky or something, or as if he
really counted, looks at me as one would say, "I? I am a millionth of
New York--and you?"

I am not even that. The city gathers itself together in a great roar
about me, puts its hands to its mouth and bellows in my country ears,
"Men are cheap enough, dear boy, didn't you know that? See those dots on
Brooklyn Bridge?"

I go on with my walk. I stop and look up at the great blocks. "Who are
you?" the great blocks say. I take another step. I am one more shuffle
on the street. "Men are cheap. Look at _us_--" a thousand show windows
say. Are there not square miles of human countenance drifting up
Broadway any day? "And where are they going?" I asked my soul. "To
oblivion?"--"They are going from Things," said my soul, "to Things"; and
_sotto voce_, "From one set of Things they know they do not want, to
another set of Things they do not know they do not want."

One need not wonder very long that nearly every man one knows in New
York is at best a mere cheered-up and plucky pessimist. Of course one
has to go down and see one's favourite New Yorker, one needs to and
wants to, and one needs to get wrought in with him too, but when one
gets home, who is there who does not have to get free from his favourite
New Yorker, shake himself off from him, save his soul a little longer?
"Men are cheap," it keeps saying over and over to one,--a New York soul
does. It keeps coming back--whispering through all the aisles of
thought. New York spreads itself like a vast concrete philosophy over
every man's spirit. It reeks with cheapness, human cheapness. How could
it be otherwise with a New York man? I never come home from New York,
wander through the city with my heart, afterward, look down upon it, see
Broadway with this little man on it, fretting up and down between his
twenty-story blocks, in his little trough of din under the wide heaven,
loomed at by iron and glass, browbeaten by stone, smothered by smoke,
but that he all but seems to me, this little Broadway man, to be
slipping off the planet, to barely belong to the planet. I feel like
clutching at him, helping him to hold on, pitying him. Then I remember
how it really is (if there is any pitying to be done),--this
crowded-over, crowded-off, matter-cringing, callous-looking man, pities
me.

When I was coming home from New York the last time, had reached a safe
distance behind my engine, out in the fields, I found myself listening
all over again to the roar (saved up in me) of the great city. I tried
to make it out, tried to analyse what it was that the voice of the great
city said to me. "The voice of the city is the Voice of Things," my soul
said to me. "And the Man?" I said, "where does the Man come in? Are not
the Things for the Man?" Then the roar of the great city rose up about
me, like a flood, swallowed my senses in itself, numbed and overbore me,
swooned my soul in itself, and said: "NO, THE THINGS ARE NOT FOR THE
MAN. THE MAN IS FOR THE THINGS."

This is what the great city said. And while I still listened, the roar
broke over me once more with its NO! NO! NO! its million voices in it,
its million souls in it. All doubts and fears and hates and cries, all
deadnesses flowed around me, took possession of me.

Then I remembered the iron and wood faces of the men, great processions
of them, I had seen there, the strange, protected-looking, boxed-in
faces of the women, faces in crates, I had seen, and I understood. "New
York," I said, "is a huge war, a great battle numbered off in streets
and houses, every man against every man, every man a shut-in,
self-defended man. It is a huge lamp-lighted, sun-lighted, ceaseless
struggle, day unto day."

"But New York is not the world. Try the whole world," said my soul to
me. "Perhaps you can do better. Are there not churches, men-making,
men-gathering places, oases for strength and rest in it?"

Then I went to all the churches in the land at once, of a still Sabbath
morning, steeples in the fields and hills, and steeples in cities. The
sound of splendid organs praying for the poor emptied people, the long,
still, innumerable sound of countless collections being taken, the drone
and seesaw of sermons, countless sermons! (Ah, these poor helpless
Sundays!) Paper-philosophy and axioms. Chimes of bells to call the
people to paper-philosophy and axioms! "Canst thou not," said I to my
soul, "guide me to a Man, to a door that leads to a Man--a world-lover
or prophet?" Then I fled (I always do after a course of churches) to the
hills from whence cometh strength. David tried to believe this. I do
sometimes, but hills are great, still, coldly companionable, rather
heartless fellows. I know in my heart that all the hills on earth, with
all their halos on them, their cities of leaves, and circles of life,
would not take the place to me, in mystery, closeness, illimitableness,
and wonder--of one man.

And when I turn from the world of affairs and churches, to the world of
scholarship, I cannot say that I find relief. Even scholarship,
scholarship itself, is under a stone most of it, prone and pale and like
all the rest, under The Emphasis of Things. Scholarship is getting to be
a mere huge New York, infinite rows and streets of things, taught by
rows of men who have made themselves over into things, to another row of
men who are trying to make themselves over into things. I visit one
after the other of our great colleges, with their forlorn, lonesome
little chapels, cosy-corners for God and for the humanities, their vast
Thing-libraries, men like dots in them, their great long, reached-out
laboratories, stables for truth, and I am obliged to confess in spirit
that even the colleges, in all ages the strongholds of the human past,
and the human future, the citadels of manhood, are getting to be great
man-blind centres, shambles of souls, places for turning every man out
from himself, every man away from other men, making a Thing of him--or
at best a Columbus for a new kind of fly, or valet to a worm, or tag or
label on Matter.

When one considers that it is a literal, scientific, demonstrable fact
that there is not a single evil that can be named in modern life,
social, religious, political, or industrial, which is not based on the
narrowness and blindness of classes of men toward one another, it is
very hard to sit by and watch the modern college almost everywhere, with
its silent, deadly Thing-emphasis upon it, educating every man it can
reach, into not knowing other men, into not knowing even himself.


VI

The Outsiders

One cannot but look with deep pleasure at first, and with much relief,
upon these healthy objective modern men of ours. The only way out, for
spiritual hardihood, after the world-sick Middle Ages, was a Columbus, a
vast splendid train of Things after him, of men who emphasised
Things,--who could emphasise Things. It is a great spectacle and a
memorable one--the one we are in to-day, the spectacle of the wonder
that men are doing with Things, but when one begins to see that it is
all being turned around, that it is really a spectacle of what Things
are doing with men, one wakes with a start. One wonders if there could
be such a thing as having all the personalities of a whole generation
lost. One looks suspiciously and wistfully at the children one sees in
the schools. One wonders if they are going to be allowed, like their
fathers and mothers, to have personalities to lose. I have all but
caught myself kidnapping children as I have watched them flocking in the
street. I have wanted to scurry them off to the country, a few of them,
almost anywhere--for a few years. I have thought I would try to find a
college to hide them in, some back-county, protected college, a college
which still has the emphasis of Persons as well as the emphasis of
Things upon it. Then I would wait and see what would come of it. I would
at least have a little bevy of great men perhaps, saved out for a
generation, enough to keep the world supplied with samples--to keep up
the bare idea of the great man, a kind of isthmus to the future.

The test of civilisation is what it produces--its man, if only because
he produces all else. If we have all made up our minds to allow the
specialist to set the pace for us, either to be specialists ourselves or
vulgarly to compete with specialists, for the right of living, or
getting a living, there is going to be a crash sometime. Then a sense of
emptiness after the crash which will call us to our senses. The
specialist's view of the world logically narrows itself down to a race
of nonentities for nothings. And even if a thing is a thing, it is a
nothing to a nonentity. And if it is the one business of the specialist
to obtain results, and we are all browbeaten into being specialists, but
one result is going to be possible. It is obvious that the man who is
willing to sacrifice the most is going to have the most success in the
race, crowd out and humiliate or annihilate the others. If this is to be
the world, it is only men who are ready to die for nothing in order to
create nothing who will be able to secure enough of nothing to rule it.
One wonders how long ruling such a world will be worth while, a world
which has accepted as the order of the day success by suicide, the
spending of manhood on things which only by being men we can enjoy--the
method of forging boilers and getting deaf to buy violins, of having
elevated railways for dead men, wireless telegraphs for clods, gigantic
printing-presses for men who have forgotten how to read. "Let us all, by
all means, make all things for the world." So we set ourselves to our
task cheerfully, the task of attaining results for people at large by
killing people in particular off. We are getting to be already, even in
the arts, men with one sense. We have classes even in colour. Schools of
painters are founded by men because they have one seventh of a sense of
sight. Schools of musicians divide themselves off into fractions of the
sense of sound, and on every hand men with a hundred and forty-three
million cells in their brains, become noted (nobodies) because they only
use a hundred and forty-three. "What is the use of attaining results,"
one asks, "of making such a perfectly finished world, when there is not
a man in it who would pay any attention to it as a world?" If the planet
were really being improved by us, if the stars shone better by our
committing suicide to know their names, it might be worth while for us
all to die, perhaps, to make racks of ourselves, frames for souls (one
whole generation of us), in one single, heroic, concerted attempt to
perfect a universe like this, the use and mastery of it. But what would
it all come to? Would we not still be left in the way on it, we and our
children, lumbering it up, soiling and disgracing it, making a machine
of it? There would be no one to appreciate it. Our children would
inherit the curse from us, would be more like us than we are. If any one
is to appreciate this world, we must appreciate it and pass the old
secret on.

No one seems to believe in appreciating--appreciating more than one
thing, at least. The practical disappearance in any vital form of the
lecture-lyceum, the sermon, the essay, and the poem, the annihilation of
the imagination or organ of comprehension, the disappearance of
personality, the abolition of the editorial, the temporary decline of
religion, of genius, of the artistic temperament, can all be summed up
and symbolised in a single trait of modern life, its separated men,
interested in separate things. We are getting to be lovers of
contentedly separate things, little things in their little places all by
themselves. The modern reader is a skimmer, a starer at pictures, like a
child, while he reads, never thinking a whole thought, a lover of peeks
and paragraphs, as a matter of course. Except in his money-making, or
perhaps in the upper levels of science, the typical modern man is all
paragraphs, not only in the way he reads, but in the way he lives and
thinks. Outside of his specialty he is not interested in anything more
than one paragraph's worth. He is as helpless as a bit of protoplasm
before the sight of a great many very different things being honestly
put together. Putting things together tires him. He has no imagination,
because he has the daily habit of contentedly seeing a great many things
which he never puts together. He is neither artistic nor original nor
far-sighted nor powerful, because he has a paragraph way of thinking, a
scrap-bag of a soul, because he cannot concentrate separate things,
cannot put things together. He has no personality because he cannot put
himself together.

It is significant that in the days when personalities were common and
when very powerful, interesting personalities could be looked up,
several to the mile, on almost any road in the land, it was not uncommon
to see a business letter-head like this:

             ----------------------------------------------
             |            General Merchandise,            |
             |         Dry Goods, Notions, Hats,          |
             |    Shoes, Groceries, Hardware, Coffins     |
             |          and Caskets, Livery and           |
             |                Feed Stable.                |
             |           Physician and Surgeon.           |
             |  Justice of the Peace, Licensed to Marry.  |
             ----------------------------------------------

If, as it looks just at present, the nation is going to believe in
arbitration as the general modern method of adjustment, that is, in the
all-siding up of a subject, the next thing it will be obliged to believe
in will be some kind of an institution of learning which will produce
arbitrators, men who have two or three perfectly good, human sides to
their minds, who have been allowed to keep minds with three dimensions.
The probabilities are that if the mind of Socrates, or any other great
man, could have an X-ray put on it, and could be thrown on a canvas, it
would come out as a hexagon, or an almost-circle, with lines very like
spokes on the inside bringing all things to a centre.

It is not necessary to deny, in the present emphasis of Things, that we
are making and inspiring all Things except ourselves in a way that would
make the Things glad. The trouble is that Things are getting too glad.
They are turning around and making us. Nearly every man in college is
being made over, mind and body, into a sort of machine. When the college
has finished him, and put him on the market, and one wonders what he is
for, one learns he is to do some very little part, of some very little
thing, and nothing else. The local paper announces with pride that in
the new factory we have for the manufacture of shoes it takes one
hundred and sixty-three machines to make one shoe--one man to each
machine. I ask myself, "If it takes one hundred and sixty-three machines
to make one shoe, how many machines does it take to make one man?"

The Infinite Face of The Street goes by me night and day. To and fro,
its innumerable eyes, always the sound of footsteps in my ears, out of
all these--jostling our shoulders, hidden from our souls, there waits an
All-man, a great man, I know, as always great men wait, whose soul shall
be the signal to the latent hero in us all, who, standing forth from the
machines of learning and the machines of worship, that spread their
noise and network through all the living of our lives, shall start again
the old sublime adventure of keeping a Man upon the earth. He shall
rouse the glowing crusaders, the darers of every land, who through the
proud and dreary temples of the wise shall go, with the cry from
Nazareth on their lips, "Woe unto you ye men of learning, ye have taken
away the key of knowledge, ye have entered not in yourselves and them
that were entering in, ye have hindered," and the mighty message of the
one great scholar of his day who knew a God: "Whether there be
prophecies they shall fail, whether there be tongues they shall cease,
whether there be knowledge it shall vanish away. Though I speak with the
tongues of men and of angels, and have not love, I am become as sounding
brass and tinkling cymbal,..."

I do not forget of Him, whose "I, IF I BE LIFTED UP" is the hail of this
modern world, that there were men of letters in those far-off days, when
once He walked with us, who, sounding their brass and tinkling their
cymbals, asked the essentially ignorant question of all outsiders of
knowledge in every age--"How knoweth this man letters, never having
learned?"

  As I lay on my bed in the night
  They came
  Pale with sleep--
  The faces of all the living
  As though they were dead;
  "What is Power?" they cried,
  Souls that were lost from their masters while they slept--
  Trooping through my dream,
  "What is Power?"
  Now these nineteen hundred years since the Boy
  In the temple with The Doctors
  Still the wind of faces flying
  Through the spaces of my dream,
  "WHAT IS POWER?" they cried.


VII

Reading the World Together

It is not necessary to decry science, but it should be cried on the
housetops of education, the world around in this twentieth century, that
science is in a rut of dealing solely with things and that the pronoun
of science is It. While it is obvious that neuter knowledge should have
its place in any real scheme of life, it is also obvious that most of
us, making locomotives, playing with mist, fire and water and lightning,
and the great game with matter, should be allowed to have sex enough to
be men and women a large part of the time, the privilege of being
persons, perchance gods, surmounting this matter we know so much about,
rather than becoming like it.

The next great move of education--the one which is to be expected--is
that the educated man of the twentieth century is going to be educated
by selecting out of all the bare knowledges the warm and human elements
in them. He is going to work these over into a relation to himself and
when he has worked them over into relation to himself, he is going to
work them over through himself into every one else and read the world
together.

It is because the general habit of reading for persons, acquiring one's
knowledge naturally and vitally and in its relation to life, has been
temporarily swept one side in modern education that we are obliged to
face the divorced condition of the educated world to-day. There seem to
be, for the most part, but two kinds of men living in it, living on
opposite sides of the same truths glaring at each other. On the one hand
the anaemically spiritual, broad, big, pallid men, and on the other the
funny, infinitesimal, provincial, matter cornered, matter-of-fact ones.

However useless it may seem to be there is but one way out. Some man is
going to come to us, must come to us, who will have it in him to
challenge these forces, do battle with them, fight with fog on one hand
and desert on the other. There never will be one world in education
until we have one man who can emphasise persons and things together, and
do it every day, side by side, in his own mind. When there is one man
who is an all-man, an epitome of a world, there shall be more all-men.
He cannot help attracting them, drawing them out, creating them. With
enough men who have a whole world in their hearts, we shall soon have a
whole world.

Whether it is true or not that the universe is most swiftly known, most
naturally enjoyed as related to one Creator or Person, as the
self-expression of one Being who loved all these things enough to gather
them together, it is generally admitted that the natural man seems to
have been created to enjoy a universe as related to himself. His most
natural and powerful way of enjoying it is to enjoy it in its relation
to persons. A Person may not have created it, but it seems for the time
being at least, and so far as persons are concerned, to have been
created for persons. To know the persons and the things together, and
particularly the things in relation to the persons, is the swiftest and
simplest way of knowing the things. Persons are the nervous system of
all knowledge. So far as man is concerned all truth is a sub-topic under
his own soul, and the universe is the tool of his own life. Reading for
different topics in it gives him a superficial knowledge of the men who
write about them. Reading to know the men gives him a superficial
knowledge, in the technical sense, of the things they write about. Let
him stand up and take his choice like a man between being superficial in
the letter and superficial in the spirit. Outside of his specialty,
however, being superficial in the letter will lead him to the most
knowledge. Man is the greatest topic. All other knowledge is a sub-topic
under a Man, and the stars themselves are as footnotes to the thoughts
of his heart.

"Things are not only related to other things," the soul of the man says,
"they are related to me." This relation of things to me is a mutual
affair, partly theirs and partly mine, and I am going to do my knowing,
act on my own knowledge, as if I were of some importance in it. Shall I
reckon with alkalis and acids and not reckon with myself? I say, "O
great Nature, O infinite Things, by the charter of my soul (and whether
I have a soul or not), I am not only going to know things, but things
shall know _me_. I stamp myself upon them. I shall receive from them and
love them and belong to them, but they shall be my things because they
are things, and they shall be to me, what I make them." "The sun is thy
plaything," my soul says to me, "O, mighty Child, the stars thy
companions. Stand up! Come out in the day! laugh the great winds to thy
side. The sea, if thou wilt have it so, is thy frog-pond and thou shalt
play with the lightnings in thy breast."

"Aye, aye," I cry, "I know it! The youth of the world seizes my whole
being. I hurrah like a child through all knowledge. I have taken all
heaven for my nursery. The world is my rocking-horse. Things are not
only for things, and my body in the end for things, but now I _live_, I
_live_, and things are for me!" "Aye, aye, and they shall be to thee,"
said my soul, "what thou biddest them."

And now I go forth quietly. "Do you not see, O mountains, that you must
reckon with me? I am the younger brother of the stars. I have faced
nations in my heart. Great bullying, hulking, half-dead centuries I have
faced. I have made them speak to me, and have dared against them. If
there is history, I also am history. If there are facts, I also am a
fact. If there are laws, it is one of the laws that I am one of the
laws."

All knowledge, I have said in my heart, instead of being a kind of vast
overseer-and-slave system for a man to lock himself up in, and throw
away his key in, becomes free, fluent, daring, and glorious the moment
it is conceived through persons and for persons and with persons.
Knowledge is not knowledge until it is conceived in relation to persons;
that is, in relation to all the facts. Persons are facts also and on the
whole the main facts, the facts which for seventy years, at least, or
until the planet is too cooled off, all other facts are for. The world
belongs to persons, is related to persons, and all the knowledge
thereof, and by heaven, and by my soul's delight, all the persons the
knowledge is related to shall belong to me, and the knowledge that is
related to them shall belong to me, the whole human round of it. The
spirit and rhythm and song of their knowledge, the thing in it that is
real to them, that sings out their lives to them, shall sing to me.




Book IV

What to Do Next

  "I am he who tauntingly compels men, women, nations,
  Crying, 'Leap from your seats and contend for your lives!'"


I

See Next Chapter

It is good to rise early in the morning, when the world is still
respectable and nobody has used it yet, and sit and look at it, try to
realise it. One sees things very differently. It is a kind of yawn of
all being. One feels one's soul lying out, all relaxed, on it, and
resting on real things. It stretches itself on the bare bones of the
earth and knows. On a hundred silent hills it lies and suns itself.

And as I lay in the morning, soul and body reaching out to the real
things and resting on them, I thought I heard One Part of me, down
underneath, half in the light and half in the dark, laughing softly at
the Other. "What is this book of yours?" it said coldly, "with its
proffered scheme of education, its millenniums and things? What do you
think this theory, this heaven-spanning theory of reading of yours,
really is, which you have held up objectively, almost authoritatively,
to be looked at as truth? Do you think it is anything after all but a
kind of pallid, unreal, water-colour exhibition, a row of blurs of
faintly coloured portraits of yourself, spread on space? Do you not see
how unfair it is--this spinning out of one's own little dark, tired
inside, a theory for a wide heaven and earth, this straddling with one
temperament a star?"

Then I made myself sit down and compose what I feared would be a
strictly honest title-page for this book. Instead of:

                        THE LOST ART OF READING

                                A STUDY
                                  OF
                               EDUCATION
                                  BY
                                  ETC.

I wrote it:

                         HOW TO BE MORE LIKE ME

                                 A SHY
                                  AT
                               EDUCATION
                                  BY
                                  ETC.

And when I had looked boldly (almost scientifically) at this title-page,
let it mock me a little, had laughed and sighed over it, as I ought,
there came a great hush from I know not where. I remembered it was the
title, after all, for better or worse, in some sort or another, of every
book I had craved and delighted in, in the whole world. Then suddenly I
found myself before this book, praying to it, and before every
struggling desiring-book of every man, of other men, where it has prayed
before, and I dared to look my title in the face. I have not denied--I
do not need to deny--that what I have uncovered here is merely my own
soul's glimmer--my interpretation--at this mighty, passing show of a
world, and it comes to you, Oh Gentle Reader, not as I am, but as I
would like to be. Out of chaos it struggles to you, and defeat--can you
not see it?--and if but the benediction of what I, or you, or any man
would like to be will come and rest on it, it is enough. Take it first
and last, it is written in every man's soul, be his theory whatsoever it
may of this great wondering world--wave after wave of it, shuddering and
glorying over him--it is written after all that he does not know that
anything is, can be, or has been in this world until he possesses it, or
misses possessing it himself--feels it slipping from him. It is in what
a man is, has, or might have, that he must track out his promise for a
world. His life is his prayer for the ages as long as he lives, and what
he is, and what he is trying to be, sings and prays for him, says masses
for his soul under the stars, and in the presence of all peoples, when
he is dead. By this truth, I and my book with you, Gentle Reader, must
stand or fall. Even now as I bend over the click of my typewriter, the
years rise dim and flow over me out of the east, ... generations of
brothers, out of the mist of heaven and out of the dust of the earth,
trooping across the world, and wondering at it, come and go, and out of
all these there shall not be one, no not one, Gentle Reader, but shall
be touched and loved by you, by me. In light out of shadow or in the
shadow out of the light, our souls fleck them, fleck them with the
invisible, blessing them and cursing them. We shall be the voices of the
night and day to them, shall live a shadow of life with them, and be the
sounds in their ears; did any man think that what we are, and what we
are trying to be, is ours, is private, is for ourselves? Boundlessly,
helplessly scattered on the world, upon the faces of our fellows, our
souls mock to us or sing to us forever.

So if I have opened my windows to you, say not it is because I have
dared. It is because I have not dared. I have said I will protect my
soul with the street. I will have my vow written on my forehead. I will
throw open my window to the passer-by. Fling it in! I beg you, oh world,
whatever it is, be it prayer or hope or jest. It is mine. I have vowed
to live with it, to live out of it--so long as I feel your footsteps
under my casement, and know that your watch is upon my days, and that
you hold me to myself. I have taken for my challenge or for my comrade,
I know not which, a whole world.

And what shall a man give in exchange for a whole world?

And my soul said "He shall not save nor keep back himself."

Who is the Fool--that I should be always taking all this trouble for
him,--tiptoeing up and down the world with my little cover over my
secret for him? To defy a Fool, I have said, speak your whole truth.
Then God locks him out. To hide a secret, have enough of it. Hide it
outdoors. Why should a man take anything less than a world to hide in?
If a soul is really a soul, why should it not fall back for its reserve
on its own infinity? God does. Even daisies do it. It is too big a world
to be always bothering about one's secret in it. "Who has time for it?"
I have said. "Give it out. Move right on living. Get another." The only
way for a man in this twentieth century to hide his soul is by letting
it reach out of sight. Not by locks, nor by stiflings, nor by mean
little economizings of the heart does a man earn a world for a comrade.
Let the laughers laugh. On the great still street in space where souls
are,--who cares?


II

Diagnosis

Compelled as I am, as most of us are, to witness the unhappy spectacle,
in every city of the land, of a great mass of unfortunate and mutilated
persons whirled round and round in rows, in huge reading-machines, being
crunched and educated, it is very hard not to rush thoughtlessly in to
the rescue sometimes, even if one has nothing better than such a
pitiful, helpless thing as good advice.

I am afraid it does not look very wise to do it. Civilisation is such a
vast, hypnotising, polarising spectacle, has the stage so fully to
itself, everybody's eyes glued on it, it is hard to get up and say what
one thinks in it. One cannot find anything equally objective to say it
with. One feels as if calling attention to one's self, to the little,
private, shabby theatre of one's own mind. It is as if in a great
theatre (on a back seat in it) one were to get up and stand in his chair
and get the audience to turn round, and say, "Ladies and gentlemen. That
is not the stage, with the foot-lights over there. This is the stage,
here where I am. Now watch me twirl my thumbs."

But the great spectacle of the universal reading-machine is too much for
me. Before I know it I try to get the audience to turn around.

The spectacle of even a single lad, in his more impressionable and
possible years, reading a book whether he has anything to do with it or
not, in spite of the author and in spite of himself, when one considers
how many books he might read which really belong to him, is enough to
make a mere reformer or outlaw or parent-interferer of any man who is
compelled to witness it.

But it seems that the only way to interfere with one of these great
reading-machines is to stop the machine. One would say theoretically
that it would not take very much to stop it--a mere broken thread of
thought would do it, if the machine had any provision for thoughts. As
it is, one can only stand outside, watch it through the window, and do
what all outsiders are obliged to do, shout into the din a little good
advice. If this good advice were to be summed up in a principle or
prepared for a text-book it would be something like this:

The whole theory of our prevailing education is a kind of unanimous,
colossal, "I can't," "You can't"; chorus, "We all of us together can't."
The working principle of public-school education, all the way from its
biggest superintendents or overseers down to its littlest tow-heads in
the primary rooms, is a huge, overbearing, overwhelming system of not
expecting anything of anybody. Everything is arranged throughout with
reference to not-expecting, and the more perfectly a system works
without expecting, or needing to expect, the more successful it is
represented to be. The public does not expect anything of the
politicians. The politicians do not expect anything of the
superintendents. The superintendents do not expect anything of the
teachers, and the teachers do not expect anything of the pupils, and the
pupils do not expect anything of themselves. That is to say, the whole
educational world is upside down,--so perfectly and regularly and
faultlessly upside down that it is almost hopeful. All one needs to do
is to turn it accurately and carefully over at every point and it will
work wonderfully.

To turn it upside down, have teachers that believe something.


III

Eclipse

When it was decreed in the course of the nineteenth century that the
educational world should pass over from the emphasis of persons to the
emphasis of things, it was decreed that a generation that could not
emphasise persons in its knowledge could not know persons. A generation
which knows things and does not know persons naturally believes in
things more than it believes in persons.

Even an educator who is as forward-looking and open to human nature as
President Charles F. Thwing, with all his emphasis of knowing persons
and believing in persons as a basis for educational work, seems to some
of us to give an essentially unbelieving and pessimistic classification
of human nature for the use of teachers.

"Early education," says President Thwing, "occupies itself with
description (geometry, space, arithmetic, time, science, the world of
nature). Later education with comparison and relations." If one asks,
"Why not both together? Why learn facts at one time and their relations
at another? Is it not the most vital possible way to learn facts to
learn them in their relations?"--the answer that would be generally made
reveals that most teachers are pessimists, that they have very small
faith in what can be expected of the youngest pupils. The theory is that
interpretative minds must not be expected of them. Some of us find it
very hard to believe as little as this, in any child. Most children have
such an incorrigible tendency for putting things together that they even
put them together wrong rather than not put them together at all. Under
existing educational conditions a child is more of a philosopher at six
than he is at twenty-six.

The third stage of education for which Dr. Thwing partitions off the
human mind is the "stage in which a pupil becomes capable of original
research, a discoverer of facts and relations" himself. In theory this
means that when a man is thirty years old and all possible habits of
originality have been trained out of him, he should be allowed to be
original. In practice it means removing a man's brain for thirty years
and then telling him he can think. There never has been a live boy in a
school as yet that would allow himself to be educated in this way if he
could help it. All the daily habits of his mind resent it. It is a
pessimistic, postponing way of educating him. It does not believe in him
enough. It may be true of men in the bulk, men by the five thousand,
that their intellectual processes happen along in this conveniently
scientific fashion, at least as regards emphasis, but when it is applied
to any individual mind, at any particular time, in actual education, it
is found that it is not true, that it is pessimistic. God is not so
monotonous and the universe is not graded as accurately as a public
school, and things are much more delightfully mixed up. If a great
university were to give itself whole-heartedly and pointedly to one
single individual student, it would find it both convenient and pleasant
and natural and necessary to let him follow these three stages all at
once, in one stage with one set of things, and in another stage with
another.

Everyone admits that the first thing a genius does with such a
convenient, three-part system, or chart for a soul, is to knock it
endwise. He does it because he can. Others would if they could. He
insists from his earliest days on doing all three parts, everything, one
set of things after the other--description, comparison, creation, and
original research sometimes all at once. He learns even words all ways
at once. All of these processes are applied to each thing that a genius
learns in his life, not the three parts of his life. One might as well
say to a child, "Now, dear little lad, your life is going to be made up
of eating, sleeping, and living. You must get your eating all done up
now, these first ten years, and then you can get your sleeping done up,
and then you can take a spell at living--or putting things together."

The first axiom of true pedagogics is that nothing can be taught except
the outside or letter of a thing. The second axiom is that there is
nothing gained in teaching a pupil the outside of a thing if he has not
the inside--the spirit or relations of it. Teachers do not dare to
believe this. They think it is true only of men of genius. They admit
that men of genius can be educated through the inside or by calling out
the spirit, by drawing out their powers of originality from the first,
but they argue that with common pupils this process should not be
allowed. They are not worthy of it. That is to say, the more ordinary
men are and the more they need brains, the less they shall be allowed to
have them.

Inasmuch, then, as the inside cannot be taught and there is no object in
teaching the outside, the question remains how to get the right inside
at work producing the right outside. This is a purely spiritual question
and brings us to the third axiom. Every human being born into the world
is entitled to a special study and a special answer all to himself. If,
as President Thwing very truly says, "The higher education as well as
the lower is to be organised about the unit of the individual student,"
what follows? The organisation must be such as to make it possible for
every teacher to study and serve each individual student as a special
being by himself. In other words, if this last statement of Dr. Thwing's
is to be acted on, it makes havoc with his first. It requires a somewhat
new and practically revolutionary organisation in education. It will be
an organisation which takes for its basic principle something like this:

_Viz._: The very essence of an average pupil is that he needs to be
studied more, not less, than any one else in order to find his
master-key, the master-passion to open his soul with. The essence of a
genius is that almost any one of a dozen passions can be made the motive
power of his learning. His soul is opening somewhere all the time.

The less individuality a student has, the more he is like other
students, the more he should be kept away from other students until what
little individuality he has has been brought out. It is not only equally
true of the ordinary man as well as of the man of genius that he must
educate himself, but it is more true. Other people's knowledge can be
poured into and poured over a genius innocently enough. It rolls off him
like water on a duck's back. Even if it gets in, he organically protects
himself. The genius of the ordinary man needs special protection made
for it. As our educational institutions are arranged at present, the
more commonplace our students are the more we herd them together to make
them more commonplace. That is, we do not believe in them enough. We
believe that they are commonplace through and through, and that nothing
can be done about it. We admit, after a little intellectual struggle,
that a genius (who is bound to be an individual anyway) should be
treated as one, but a common boy, whose individuality can only be
brought out by his being very vigorously and constantly reminded of it,
and exercised in it, is dropped altogether as an individual, is put into
a herd of other common boys, and his last remaining chance of being
anybody is irrevocably cut off. We do not believe in him as an
individual. He is a fraction of a roomful. He is a 67th or 734th of
something. Some one has said that the problem of education is getting to
be, How can we give, in our huge learning-machines, our exceptional
students more of a chance? I state a greater problem: How can we give
our common students a chance to be exceptional ones?

The problem can only be solved by teachers who believe something, who
believe that there is some common ground, some spiritual law of
junction, between the man of genius, the natural or free man, and the
cramped, _i. e._, artificial, ordinary one. It would be hard to name any
more important proposition for current education to act on than this,
that the natural man in this world is the man of genius. The Church has
had to learn that religion does not consist in being unnatural. The
schools are next to learn that the man of genius is not unnatural. He is
what nature intended every man to be, at the point where his genius
lies. The way out in education, the only believing, virile, man's way
out, would seem to be to begin with the man of genius as a principle and
work out the application of the principle to more ordinary men--men of
slowed-down genius. We are going to use the same methods--faster or
slower--for both. A child's greater genius lies in his having a more
lively sense of relation with more things than other children. Teachers
are going to believe that if the right thing can be done about it, this
sense of a live relation to knowledge can be uncovered in every human
soul, that there is a certain sense in which every man is his own
genius. "By education," said Helvetius, "you can make bears dance, but
never create a man of genius." The first thing for a teacher who
believes this to do, is not to teach.


IV

Apocalypse

There is a spirit in this book, struggling down underneath it, which
neither I nor any other man shall ever express. It needs a nation to
express it, a nation fearless to know itself, a great, joyous, trustful,
expectant nation. The centuries break away. I almost see it now, lifting
itself in its plains and hills and fields and cities, in its smoke and
cloud-land, as on some huge altar, to supreme destiny, a nation freed
before heaven by the mighty, daily, childlike joy of its own life. I see
it as a nation full of personalities, full of self-contained, normally
self-centred, self-delighted, self-poised men--men of genius, men who
balance off with a world, men who are capable of being at will
magnificently self-conscious or unconscious, self-possessed and
self-forgetful--balanced men, comrades and equals of a world, neither
its slaves nor its masters.

I have said I will not have a faith that I have to get to with a
trap-door. I have said that inspiration is for everybody. I have had
inspiration myself and I will not clang down a door above my soul and
believe that God has given to me or to any one else what only a few can
have. I do not want anything, I will not have anything that any one
cannot have. If there is one thing rather than another that inspiration
is for, it is that when I have it I know that any man can have it. It is
necessary to my selfishness that he shall have it. If a great wonder of
a world like this is given to a man, and he is told to live on it and it
is not furnished with men to live with, with men that go with it, what
is it all for? If one could have one's choice in being damned there
would be no way that would be quite so quick and effective as having
inspirations that were so little inspired as to make one suppose they
were merely for one's self or for a few others. The only way to save
one's soul or to keep a corner for God in it is to believe that He is a
kind of God who has put inspiration in every man. All that has to be
done with it, is to get him to stop smothering it.

Inspiration, instead of being an act of going to work in a minute,
living a few hundred years at once, an act of making up and creating a
new and wonderful soul for one's self, consists in the act of lifting
off the lid from the one one has. The mere fact that the man exists who
has had both experiences, not having inspiration and having it, gives a
basis for knowledge of what inspiration is. A man who has never had
anything except inspiration cannot tell us what it is, and a man who has
never had it cannot tell us what it is; but a man who has had both of
these experiences (which is the case with most of us) constitutes a
cross-section of the subject, a symbol of hope for every one. All who
have had not-inspirations and inspirations both know that the origin and
control and habit of inspiration, are all of such a character as to
suggest that it is the common property of all men. All that is necessary
is to have true educators or promoters, men who furnish the conditions
in which the common property can be got at.

The only difference between men of genius--men of genius who know
it--and other men--men of genius who don't know it--is that the men of
genius who know it have discovered themselves, have such a headlong
habit of self-joy in them, have tasted their self-joys so deeply, that
they are bound to get at them whether the conditions are favourable or
not. The great fact about the ordinary man's genius, which the
educational world has next to reckon with, is that there are not so many
places to uncover it. The ordinary man at first, or until he gets the
appetite started, is more particular about the conditions.

It is because a man of genius is more thorough with the genius he has,
more spiritual and wilful with it than other men, that he grows great. A
man's genius is always at bottom religious, at the point where it is
genius, a worshipping toward something, a worshipping toward something
until he gets it, a supreme covetousness for God, for being a God. It is
a faith in him, a sense of identity and sharing with what seems to be
above and outside, a sense of his own latent infinity. I have said that
all that real teaching is for, is to say to a man, in countless ways, a
countless "You can." And I have said that all real learning is for is to
say "I can." When we have enough great "I can's," there will be a great
society or nation, a glorious "We can" rising to heaven. This is the
ideal that hovers over all real teaching and makes it
deathless,--fertile for ever.

If the world could be stopped short for ten years in its dull, sullen
round of not believing in itself, if it could be allowed to have, all of
it, all over, even for three days, the great solemn joy of letting
itself go, it would not be caught falling back very soon, I think, into
its stupor of cowardice. It would not be the same world for three
hundred years. All that it is going to require to get all people to feel
that they are inspired is some one who is strong enough to lift a few
people off of themselves--get the idea started. Every man is so busy
nowadays keeping himself, as he thinks, properly smothered, that he has
not the slightest idea of what is really inside him, or of what the
thing that is really inside him would do with him, if he would give it a
chance. Any man who has had the experience of not having inspiration and
the experience of having it both knows that it is the sense of striking
down through, of having the lid of one's smaller consciousness lifted
off. In the long run his inspiration can be had or not as he wills. He
knows that it is the supreme reasonableness in him, the primeval,
underlying naturalness in him, rising to its rights. What he feels when
he is inspired is that the larger laws, the laws above the other laws,
have taken hold of him. He knows that the one law of inspiration is that
a man shall have the freedom of himself. Most problems and worries are
based on defective, uninvoked functions. Some organ, vision, taste, or
feeling or instinct is not allowed its vent, its chance to qualify.
Something needs lifting away. The common experience of sleeping things
off, or walking or working them off, is the daily symbol of inspiration.
More often than not a worry or trouble is moved entirely out of one's
path by the simplest possible device, an intelligent or instinctive
change of conditions.

The fundamental heresy of modern education is that it does not believe
this--does not believe in making deliberate arrangements for the
originality of the average man. It does not see that the extraordinary
man is simply the ordinary man keyed-up, writ large or moving more
rapidly. What the average man is now, the great men were once. When we
begin to understand that a man of genius is not supernatural, that he is
simply more natural than the rest of us, that all the things that are
true for him are true for us, except that they are true more slowly, the
educational world will be a new world. The very essence of the creative
power of a man of genius over other men, is that he believes in them
more than they do. He writes, paints, or sings as if all other men were
men of genius, and he keeps on doing it until they are. All modern human
nature is annexed genius. The whole world is a great gallery of things,
that men of genius have seen, until they make other men see them too,
and prove that other men can see them. What one man sees with travail or
by being born again, whole generations see at last without trying, and
when they are born the first time. The great cosmic process is going on
in the human spirit. Ages flow down from the stars upon it. No one man
shall guess, now or ever, what a man is, what a man shall be. But it is
to be noticed that when the world gets its greatest man--the One who
guesses most, generations are born and die to know Him, all with awe and
gentleness in their hearts. One after the other as they wheel up to the
Great Sun to live,--they call Him the Son of God because He thought
everybody was.

The main difference between a great man and a little one is a matter of
time. If the little man could keep his organs going, could keep on
experiencing, acting, and reacting on things for four thousand years, he
would have no difficulty in being as great as some men are in their
threescore and ten. All genius is inherited time and space. The
imagination, which is the psychological substitute for time and space,
is a fundamental element in all great power, because, being able to
reach results without pacing off the processes, it makes it possible for
a man to crowd more experience in, and be great in a shorter time.

The idea of educating the little man in the same way as the great man,
from the inside, or by drawing out his originality, meets with many
objections. It is objected that inasmuch as no little men could be made
into great men in the time allotted, there would be no object in trying
to do it, and no result to show for it in the world, except row after
row of spoiled little men, drearily waiting to die. The answer to this
is the simple assertion that if a quart-cup is full it is the utmost a
quart-cup can expect. A hogshead can do no more. So far as the man
himself is concerned, if he has five sound, real senses in him, all of
them acting and reacting on real things, if he is alive, i. e., sincere
through and through, he is educated. True education must always consist,
not in how much a man has, but in the way he feels about what he has.
The kingdom of heaven is on the inside of his five senses.


V

Every Man his Own Genius

I do not mean by the man of genius in this connection the great man of
genius, who takes hold of his ancestors to live, rakes centuries into
his life, burns up the phosphorus of ten generations in fifty years, and
with giant masterpieces takes leave of the world at last, bringing his
family to a full stop in a blaze of glory, and a spindling child or so.
I am merely contending for the principle that the extraordinary or
inspired man is the normal man (at the point where he is inspired) and
that the ordinary or uninspired boy can be made like him, must be
educated like him, led out through his self-delight to truth, that, if
anything, the ordinary or uninspired boy needs to be educated like a
genius more than a genius does.

I know of a country house which reminds me of the kind of mind I would
like to have. In the first place, it is a house that grew. It could not
possibly have been thought of all at once. In the second place, it grew
itself. Half inspiration and half common-sense, with its mistakes and
its delights all in it, gloriously, frankly, it blundered into being,
seven generations tumbled on its floors, filled it with laughter and
love and tears. One felt that every life that had come to it had written
itself on its walls, that the old house had broken out in a new place
for it, full of new little joys everywhere, and jogs and bays and
afterthoughts and forethoughts, old roofs and young ones chumming
together, and old chimneys (three to start with and four new ones that
came when they got ready). Everything about it touched the heart and
said something. I have never managed to see it yet, whether in sunlight,
cloud-light, or starlight, or the light of its own lamps, but that it
stood and spoke. It is a house that has genius. The genius of the earth
and the sky around it are all in it, of motherhood, of old age, and of
little children. It grew out of a spirit, a loving, eager,
putting-together, a making of relations between things that were
apart,--the portrait of a family. It is a very beautiful, eloquent
house, and hundreds of nights on the white road have I passed it by, in
my lonely walk, and stopped and listened to it, standing there in its
lights, like a kind of low singing in the trees, and when I have come
home, later, on the white road, and the lights were all put out, I still
feel it speaking there, faint against heaven, with all its sleep, its
young and old sleep, its memories and hopes of birth and death, lifting
itself in the night, a prayer of generations.

Many people do not care for it very much. They would wonder that I
should like a mind like it. It is a wandering-around kind of a house,
has thirty outside doors. If one doesn't like it, it is easy to get out
(which is just what I like in a mind). Stairways almost anywhere, only
one or two places in the whole building where there is not a piazza, and
every inch of piazza has steps down to the grass and there are no walks.
A great central fireplace, big as a room, little groups of rooms that
keep coming on one like surprises, and little groups of houses around
outside that have sprung up out of the ground themselves. A flower
garden that thought of itself and looks as if it took care of itself
(but doesn't). Everything exuberant and hospitable and free on every
side and full of play,--a high stillness and seriousness over all.

I cannot quite say what it is, but most country houses look to me as if
they had forgotten they were really outdoors, in a great, wide, free,
happy place, where winds and suns run things, where not even God says
nay, and everything lives by its inner law, in the presence of the
others, exults in its own joy and plays with God. Most country homes
forget this. They look like little isles of glare and showing off, and
human joylessness, dotting the earth. People's minds in the houses are
like the houses: they reek with propriety. That is, they are all
abnormal, foreign to the spirit, to the passion of self-delight, of
life, of genius. Most of them are fairly hostile to genius or look at it
with a lorgnette.

I like to think that if the principles and habits of freedom that result
in genius were to be gauged and adjusted toward bringing out the genius
of ordinary men, they would result in the following:

Recipe to make a great man (or a live small one): Let him be made like a
great work of art. In general, follow the rule in Genesis i.

1. Chaos.

2. Enough Chaos; that is, enough kinds of Chaos. Pouring all the several
parts of Chaos upon the other parts of Chaos.

3. Watch to see what emerges and what it is in the Chaos that most
belongs to all the rest, what is the Unifying Principle.

4. Fertilise the Chaos. Let it be impregnated with desire, will,
purpose, personality.

5. When the Unifying Principle is discovered, refrain from trying to
force everything to attach itself to it. Let things attach themselves in
their way as they are sure to do in due time and grow upon it. Let the
mind be trusted. Let it not be always ordered around, thrust into, or
meddled with. The making of a man, like the making of a work of art,
consists in giving the nature of things a chance, keeping them open to
the sun and air and the springs of thought. The first person who ever
said to man, "You press the button and I will do the rest," was God.

The emphasis of art in our modern education, of the knack or science or
how of things, is to be followed next by the emphasis of the art that
conceals art, genius, the norm and climax of human ability. Any
finishing-school girl can out-sonnet Keats. The study of appearances,
the passion for the outside has run its course. The next thing in
education is going to be honesty, fearless naturalness, upheaval, the
freedom of self, self-expectancy, all-expectancy, and the passion for
possessing real things. The personalities, persons with genius, persons
with free-working, uncramped minds, are all there, ready and waiting,
both in teachers and pupils, all growing _sub rosa_, and the main thing
that is left to do is to lift the great roof of machinery off and let
them come up. The days are already upon us when education shall be taken
out of the hands of anaemic, abstracted men--men who go into everything
theory-end first. There is already a new atmosphere in the educated
world. The thing that shall be taught shall be the love of swinging out,
of swinging up to the light and the air. Let every man live, the world
says next, a little less with his outside, with his mere brain or
logic-stitching machine. Let him swear by his instincts more, and live
with his medulla oblongata.


VI

An Inclined Plane

"This is a very pleasant and profitable ideal you have printed in this
book, but teachers and pupils and institutions being what they are, it
is not practical and nothing can be done about it," it is objected.


RESPECTFULLY SUBMITTED

1. There is nothing so practical as an ideal, for if through his
personality and imagination a man can be made to see an ideal, the ideal
does itself; that is, it takes hold of him and inspires him to do it and
to find means for doing it. This is what has been aimed at in this book.

2. The first and most practical thing to do with an ideal is to believe
it.

3. The next most practical thing is to act as if one believed it. This
makes other people believe it. To act as if one believed an ideal is to
be literal with it, to assume that it can be made real, that
something--some next thing--can be done with it.

4. It is only people who believe an ideal who can make it practical.
Educators who think that an ideal is true and who do not think it is
practical do not think it is true, do not really know it. The process of
knowing an ideal, of realising it with the mind, is the process of
knowing that it can be made real. This is what makes it an ideal, that
it is capable of becoming real, and if a man does not realise an ideal,
cannot make it real in his mind, it is not accurate for him to say that
it is not practical. It is accurate for him to say that it is not
practical to him. The ideal presented in this book is not presented as
practical except to teachers who believe it.

5. Every man has been given in this world, if he is allowed to get at
them, two powers to make a man out of. These powers are Vision and
Action. (1) Seeing, and (2) Being or Doing what one sees. What a man
sees with, is quite generally called his imagination. What he does with
what he sees, is called his character or personality. If it is true, as
has been maintained in the whole trend of this book, that the most
important means of education are imagination and personality, the power
of seeing things and the power of living as if one saw them, imagination
and personality must be accepted as the forces to teach with, and the
things that must be taught. The persons who have imagination and
personality in modern life must do the teaching.

6. Parents and others who believe in imagination and personality as the
supreme energies of human knowledge and the means of education, and who
have children they wish taught in this way, are going to make
connections with such teachers and call on them to do it.

7. Inasmuch as the best way to make an ideal that rests on persons
practical is to find the persons, the next thing for persons who believe
in an ideal to do is to find each other out. All persons, particularly
teachers and parents, in their various communities and in the nation,
who believe that the ideal is practical in education should be social
with their ideal, group themselves together, make themselves known and
felt.

8. Some of us are going to act through the schools we have. We are going
to make room in our present over-managed, morbidly organised
institutions, with ordered-around teachers, for teachers who cannot be
ordered around, who are accustomed to use their imaginations and
personalities to teach with, instead of superintendents. We are going to
have superintendents who will desire such teachers. The reason that our
over-organised and over-superintended schools and colleges cannot get
the teachers they want, to carry out their ideals, is a natural one
enough. The moment ideal teachers are secured it is found that they have
ideals of their own and that they will not teach without them. When
vital and free teachers are attracted to the schools and allowed fair
conditions there, they will soon crowd others out. The moment we arrange
to give good teachers a chance good teachers will be had.

9. Others will find it best to act in another way. Instead of reforming
schools from the inside, they are going to attack the problem from the
outside, start new schools which shall stand for live principles and
outlive the others. As good teachers can arrange better conditions for
themselves to teach in their own schools, wherever practicable this
would seem to be the better way. They are going to organise colleges of
their own. They are going to organise unorganised colleges (for such
they would be called at first), assemblings of inspired teachers, men
grouping men about them each after his kind.

Every one can begin somewhere. Teachers who are outside can begin
outside and teachers who are within can begin within. Certainly if every
teacher who believes something will believe deeply, will free himself,
let himself out with his belief, act on it, the day is not long hence
when the great host of ordered-around teachers with their ordered-around
pupils will be a memory. Copying and appearing to know will cease.
Self-delight and genius will again be the habit of the minds of men and
the days of our present poor, pale, fuddling, unbelieving,
Simon-says-thumbs-up education will be numbered.

       *       *       *       *       *

Sometimes it seems as if this globe, this huge cyclorama of nations
whirling in sunlight through stars, were a mere empty, mumbled
repetition, a going round and round of the same stupendous stupidities
and the same heroisms in human life. One is always feeling as if
everything, arts, architecture, cables, colleges, nations, had all
almost literally happened before, in the ages dark to us, gone the same
round of beginning, struggling, and ending. Then the globe was wiped
clean and began again.

One of the great advantages in emphasising individuals,--the main idea
of this book,--in picking out particular men as forces, centres of
energy in society, as the basis for one's programme for human nature, is
the sense it gives that things really can begin again--begin
anywhere--where a man is. One single human being, deeply believed in,
glows up a world, casts a kind of speculative value, a divine wager over
all the rest. I confess that most men I have seen seem to me
phantasmagorically walking the earth, their lives haunting them, hanging
intangibly about them--indefinitely postponed. But one does not need, in
order to have a true joyous working-theory of life, to believe verbatim,
every moment, in the mass of men--as men. One needs to believe in them
very much--as possible men--larvae of great men, and if, in the meantime,
one can have (what is quite practicable) one sample to a square mile of
what the mass of men in that mile might be, or are going to be, one
comes to a considerable degree of enthusiasm, a working and sharing
enthusiasm for all the rest.


VII

Allons

I thought when I began to make my little visit in civilisation--this
book--that perhaps I ought to have a motto to visit a civilisation with.
So the motto I selected (a good one for all reformers, viewers of
institutions and things) was, "Do not shoot the organist. He is doing
the best he can." I fear I have not lived up to it. I am an optimist. I
cannot believe he is doing the best he can. Before I know it, I get to
hoping and scolding. I do not even believe he is enjoying it. Most of
the people in civilisation are not enjoying it. They are like people one
sees on tally-hos. They are not really enjoying what they are doing.
They enjoy thinking that other people think they are enjoying it.

The great characteristic enthusiasm of modern society, of civilisation,
the fad of showing off, of exhibiting a life instead of living it, very
largely comes, it is not too much to say, from the lack of normal
egoism, of self-joy in civilised human beings. It has come over us like
a kind of moral anaemia. People cannot get interested enough in anything
to be interested in it by themselves. Hence no great art--merely the art
which is a trick or knack of appearance. We lack great art because we do
not believe in great living.

The emphasis which would seem to be most to the point in civilisation is
that people must enjoy something, something of their very own, even if
it is only their sins, if they can do no better, and they are their own.
It would be a beginning. They could work out from that. They would get
the idea. Some one has said that people repent of their sins because
they didn't enjoy them as much as they expected to. Well, then, let them
enjoy their repentance. The great point is, in this world, that men must
get hold of reality somewhere, somehow, get the feel, the bare feel of
living before they try dying. Most of us seem to think we ought to do
them both up together. It is to be admitted that people might not do
really better things for their own joy, than for other people's, but
they would do them better. It is not the object of this book to reform
people. Reformers are sinners enjoying their own sins, who try to keep
other people from enjoying theirs. The object of this book is to inspire
people to enjoy anything, to find a principle that underlies right and
wrong both. Let people enjoy their sins, we say, if they really know how
to enjoy. The more they get the idea of enjoying anything, the more
vitally and sincerely they will run their course--turn around and enjoy
something truer and more lasting. What we all feel, what every man feels
is, that he has a personal need of daring and happy people around him,
people that are selfish enough to be alive and worth while, people that
have the habit and conviction of joy, whose joys whether they are wrong
or right are real joys to them, not shadows or shows of joys, joys that
melt away when no one is looking.

The main difficulty in the present juncture of the world in writing on
the Lost Art of Reading is that all the other arts are lost, the great
self-delights. As they have all been lost together, it has been
necessary to go after them together, to seek some way of securing
conditions for the artist, the enjoyer and prophet of human life, in our
modern time. At the bottom of all great art, it is necessary to believe,
there has been great, believing, free, beautiful living. This is not
saying that inconsistency, contradiction, and insincerity have not
played their part, but it is the benediction, the great Amen of the
world, to say this,--that if there has been great constructive work
there has been great radiant, unconquerable, constructive living behind
it. There is but one way to recover the lost art of reading. It is to
recover the lost art of living. The day we begin to take the liberty of
living our own lives there will be artists and seers everywhere. We will
all be artists and seers, and great arts, great books, and great readers
of books will flock to us.

       *       *       *       *       *

Well, here we are, Gentle Reader. We are rounding the corner of the last
paragraph. Time stretches out before us. On the great highroad we stand
together in the dawn--I with my little book in hand, you, perhaps, with
yours. The white road reaches away before us, behind us. There are
cross-roads. There are parallels, too. Sometimes when there falls a
clearness on the air, they are nearer than I thought. I hear crowds
trudging on them in the dark, singing faintly. I hear them cheering in
the dark.

But this is my way, right here. See the hill there? That is my next one.
The sun in a minute. You are going my way, comrade?... You are not going
my way? So be it. God be with you. The top o' the morning to you. I pass
on.




                       Our European Neighbours

                   Edited by WILLIAM HARBUTT DAWSON

                  12 deg.. Illustrated. Each, net $1.20
                  By Mail                      1.30


I--FRENCH LIFE IN TOWN AND COUNTRY

By HANNAH LYNCH.

"Miss Lynch's pages are thoroughly interesting and suggestive. Her
style, too, is not common. It is marked by vivacity without any drawback
of looseness, and resembles a stream that runs strongly and evenly
between walls. It is at once distinguished and useful.... Her five-page
description (not dramatization) of the grasping Paris landlady is a
capital piece of work.... Such well-finished portraits are frequent in
Miss Lynch's book, which is small, inexpensive, and of a real
excellence."--_The London Academy_.

"Miss Lynch's book is particularly notable. It is the first of a series
describing the home and social life of various European peoples--a
series long needed and sure to receive a warm welcome. Her style is
frank, vivacious, entertaining, captivating, just the kind for a book
which is not at all statistical, political, or controversial. A special
excellence of her book, reminding one of Mr. Whiteing's, lies in her
continual contrast of the English and the French, and she thus sums up
her praises: 'The English are admirable: the French are lovable.'"--_The
Outlook_.


II--GERMAN LIFE IN TOWN AND COUNTRY

By W. H. DAWSON, author of "Germany and the Germans," etc.

"The book is as full of correct, impartial, well-digested, and
well-presented information as an egg is of meat. One can only recommend
it heartily and without reserve to all who wish to gain an insight into
German life. It worthily presents a great nation, now the greatest and
strongest in Europe."--_Commercial Advertiser_.


III--RUSSIAN LIFE IN TOWN AND COUNTRY

By FRANCIS H. E. PALMER, sometime Secretary to H. H. Prince
Droutskop-Loubetsky (Equerry to H. M. the Emperor of Russia).

"We would recommend this above all other works of its character to those
seeking a clear general understanding of Russian life, character, and
conditions, but who have not the leisure or inclination to read more
voluminous tomes ... It cannot be too highly recommended, for it conveys
practically all that well-informed people should know of 'Our European
Neighbours.'"--_Mail and Express_.


IV--DUTCH LIFE IN TOWN AND COUNTRY

By P. M. HOUGH, B.A.

Not alone for its historic past is Holland interesting, but also for the
paradox which it presents to-day. It is difficult to reconcile the
old-world methods seen all over the country with the advanced ideas
expressed in conversation, in books, and in newspapers. Mr. Hough's long
residence in the country has enabled him to present a trustworthy
picture of Dutch social life and customs in the seven provinces,--the
inhabitants of which, while diverse in race, dialect, and religion, are
one in their love of liberty and patriotic devotion.

"Holland is always interesting, in any line of study. In this work its
charm is carefully preserved. The sturdy toil of the people, their quaint
characteristics, their conservative retention of old dress and customs,
their quiet abstention from taking part in the great affairs of the
world are clearly reflected in this faithful mirror. The illustrations
are of a high grade of photographic reproductions."--_Washington Post_.


V.--SWISS LIFE IN TOWN AND COUNTRY

By ALFRED T. STORY, author of the "Building of the British Empire,"
etc.

"We do not know a single compact book on the same subject in which Swiss
character in all its variety finds so sympathetic and yet thorough
treatment; the reason of this being that the author has enjoyed
privileges of unusual intimacy with all classes, which prevented his
lumping the people as a whole without distinction of racial and cantonal
feeling."--_Nation_.

"There is no phase of the lives of these sturdy republicans, whether
social or political, which Mr. Story does not touch upon; and an
abundance of illustrations drawn from unhackneyed subjects adds to the
value of the book."--_Chicago Dial_.


VI.--SPANISH LIFE IN TOWN AND COUNTRY

By L. HIGGIN.

The new volume in the fascinating series entitled "Our European
Neighbours" ought to be of special interest to Americans, as it
describes faithfully, and at the same time in a picturesque style, the
social life of a people who have been much maligned by the casual
globe-trotter. Spain has sunk from the proud position which she held
during the Middle Ages, but much of the force and energy which charged
the old-time Spaniard still remains, and there is to-day a determined
upward movement out of the abyss into which despotism and bigotry had
plunged her.


VII.--ITALIAN LIFE IN TOWN AND COUNTRY

By LUIGI VILLARI.

The author, who is a son of Professor Villari of London, takes the point
of view required by this series, _i. e._, he looks on Italy with the eyes
of an Englishman, and yet he has all the advantage of Italian blood to
aid him in his sympathy with every detail of his subject.

"A most interesting and instructive volume, which presents an intimate
view of the social habits and manner of thought of the people of which
it treats."--_Buffalo Express_.

"A book full of information, comprehensive and accurate. Its numerous
attractive illustrations add to its interest and value. We are glad to
welcome such an addition to an excellent series."--_Syracuse Herald_.


                         G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS

                        _New York and London_




                     By R. DE MAULDE LA CLAVIERE


WOMEN OF THE RENAISSANCE

A Study of Feminism. Translated by George Herbert Ely. 8 deg.. With
portrait. _net_, $3.50

"We have only admiration to bestow upon this most intricate and masterly
analysis of the great feminine revolution of the sixteenth century ...
There are chapters that we find ourselves wishing everybody might read;
the admirable essay, for instance, on the 'Embroidery of Life,' and that
other chapter discussing the influence of Platonism...."--_Athenaeum,
London_.

"Everything is so brightly, so captivatingly important in this volume,
the search into the past has been so well rewarded, the conclusions are
so shrewd and clever, the subject is so limitless, yet curiously
limited, that as history or as psychology it should gain a large
public."--_Bookman_.


THE ART OF LIFE

Translated by George Herbert Ely. 8 deg.. (By mail, $1.85) _net_, $1.75

There is no one to whom Buffon's phrase, _Le style c'est l'homme meme_,
may be more justly applied than to M. de Maulde. His work is absolutely
himself; it derives from his original personality and his wide and sure
learning an historical value and a literary charm almost unique. He is a
wit with the curiosity and patience of the scholar, and a scholar with
the temperament of the artist. The sparkle and humour of his
conversation are crystallised in his letters, the charming expression of
a large and generous nature.


                         G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS

                     New York             London





End of Project Gutenberg's The Lost Art of Reading, by Gerald Stanley Lee

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